


Chromatin

by Friolero



Series: Morpholgy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Omega, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Deaf Character, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I have probably gotten some tags wrong., M/M, Murder Mystery, Omega John, Parentlock, Post Mpreg, Post-Reichenbach, Sign Language, Temporary Character Death, Warnings for possible triggers.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:36:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 123,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3312431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Friolero/pseuds/Friolero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Please note that this is part two/sequel to Apoptosis. It may not make much sense unless you read  that story first.</p><p> </p><p>Lestrade struggles with the burden of his secret and catching the person who commemorates the death of Sherlock Holmes with murder. Ideally he would take John Watson into protective custody, but nobody has heard from him since he left Baker Street a few weeks after the funeral.</p><p>But everything has changed for John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>A movement is forming, aiming to open the British population´s eyes to the Alpha menace. In the midsts of chaos, change, mystery and multiple murders, Sherlock and John try to rebuild their relationship and figure out how to be a family.</p><p>Beta read by CowMow.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wish to extend my most sincere thanks to all the wonderful people who have offered me their support, love and encouragement through kudos, comments and even on tumblr. I would never have found the courage or inspiration to finish my writing if not for you guys. Thank you ever so much. I hope you will join me on the journey through the second part of Apoptosis. 
> 
> -Friolero.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first murder

**Warning** **:** graphic depiction of a crime scene.

**Chapter 1.**

 

The fog comes billowing in from the sea during the night. It settles in London, heavy and thick and makes it impossible to see anything but vague silhouettes.

 

Sophie Barnes tightens her grip on her shoulder bag and peers into the gray mass. She’s been walking down Baker Street every morning since she started working at Tesco two years ago. She could probably find her way blindfolded. Somehow, the fog is worse than darkness. The fog distorts familiar shapes, warps them into monsters, it bounces noises around until Sophie Barnes is chased by the sound of her own footsteps.

 

She quickens her pace.

Almost there. Almost safe.

 

She tethers herself to the strap of her bag, focuses on her steps, and tries to think about the weekend ahead: a visit from her sister and her youngest niece and nephew. She’ll take them to Hamleys, let them pick anything they want. If the weather is nice they can even visit the zoo, look at the penguins and the giraffes. Her sister will say she’s spoiling them but isn’t that an aunts’ prerogative? Thinking about the wonderful weekend ahead makes the walk easier.

 

Somewhere ahead a cat cries and a dog starts barking. Sophie Barnes pauses, she cranes her neck, listens. The dog is still barking and then she hears the sound of rattling dustbins, a car coughing, and the sound of it driving away. She squints into the gray mass. She can almost make out the shapes of the surrounding buildings. A couple of hundred yards more and she’d be there.

 

The dog is still barking, a relentless, even sound, almost like Morse code. Like it is trying to warn her.

 

The fog clings to her body, sticky and humid and her coat is heavy and warm. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of her neck and she worries that her uniform will be stained before her shift has started.  

 

Sophie Barnes stops. Hesitates. Why isn’t the dog’s owner telling it to shut up? It’s going to wake up the entire neighborhood soon. Could it be injured?

 

She takes a few steps forward, one hand wrapped around her cellphone, just in case she needs to call for help.

 

The barking gets louder and louder.

 

“Here, boy, here,” Sophie Barnes beckons, crouching.

 

The barking stops and a few seconds later, a small, white dog shuffles forward, wagging its tail. It’s an undetermined mix, with large ears and a short, springy, tail that waves excitedly. It nips and licks at Sophie’s fingers, and she coos encouragingly at it.

 

“No collar on you, huh? Are you lost?”

 

The dog whines and Sophie Barnes lets her fingers run through it course hair on its head and muzzle. They come away sticky and wet and it takes her a few second to realize that it’s blood.

 

“Are you hurt, boy?”

 

The dog turns around and trots back the way it came, soon invisible in the fog.

 

“Hey, wait up!”

 

Sophie Barns hurries after the dog, wiping her fingers on her jacket.

 

In between the hazy, gray, mass, a shape appears in front of her. She’s never seen it before and for a moment she wonders if it’s some new art installment or an advertisement gimmick. The dog starts barking again, and Sophie Barns steps forward, slower, the shape growing clearer with each heartbeat.

 

It looks like a bust, or maybe a memorial that somebody has put up during the weekend.

 

But she knows it isn’t.

 

Sophie Barns steps forward, her heart hammering like a trapped bird.

 

His empty eyes trap hers. The head has been separated from the rest of the body and put on a pole. A small stream of blood trickles down the pole and to the ground. The dog has its muzzle to the ground licking at the blood, wagging its tail.

 

Sophie Barns screams.

 

 

 

 

“I suppose it’s a real head,” Sergeant Sally Donovan asks thirty minutes later. She blows on her hands, rubs them together and wishes she hadn’t forgotten her gloves. It´s too goddamned cold and early for a decapitation. 

 

They’ve cordoned off the area, but a head on a stake is bound to draw a crowd, even at seven o’clock in the morning. News vans are setting up their barricades and somewhere a blitz goes off. Christ, in a few minutes this is going to be all over the Internet.

 

Crime scene technician Albert Thompson nods, “it’s real.”

 

He’s worked for the London metropolitan for almost fifteen years and has too much experience with human capability for brutality. He has seen bloated corpse floating in the river, he has seen bodies writhing with so many maggots it seems as though the victim is still moving. He has worked on accidents scenes where there isn’t much left of the victim. He has photographed dead and mutilated children. Albert Thompson has seen evil before and he recognizes it now. This crime scene could only have taken root in the most sinister of minds.

 

The victim is in his mid thirties, beyond that, his age it’s impossible to tell. It’s a round face, almost doughy and there is the telltale sign of early baldness visible on the top of his head, even if he has tried to cover it with a short, clean, haircut. He can see the contour of the muscles of the windpipe and the esophagus and the wooden splinters embedded in them.

 

“The wound is uneven and serrated,” Albert Thompson narrates, as he instructs his assistant to take several close-up photographs. “I’ll know for certain back at the lab, but my preliminary estimation is a saw of some kind. Probably manual.”

 

He glances up at the victim’s face. It’s almost like he can see echoes of terror and pain in the pale eyes like the poor sod knew what was about to happen to him.

 

As if he had been alive when it happened.

 

“The pole is about…two meters long, it’s been cleared of bark and dried. It looks like oak. Further analysis will tell us more, but I wouldn’t hold my hopes up. There is a couple of prints in the blood here-”

 

“Yeah,” Sergeant Donovan grimaces, “a dog found the crime scene first.”

 

Albert Thompson nods, “I’ll need dog brought down to the lab.”

 

“It’s not been long since he was decapitated, three-four hours at most. We’ve got gravity to thank for the blood. That puts time of death somewhere at three or four am. Again, further analysis will give us a more precise estimation.”

 

Albert Thompson pulls back a bit and studies the victim with a puzzled frown.

  
“He looks familiar, doesn’t he?”

 

 “Pretty sure you don’t get to be on the cover of Heat magazine with a mug like that.”

 

“No,no….not a celebrity. It’s like I’ve seen him somewhere before….maybe an earlier case?”

 

Sergeant Donovan shrugs helplessly. She turns and sees detective inspector Lestrade striding up the street. Her eyes linger on the dark shadows under Lestrade’s eyes and the frown line that has marred his forehead for the past year. A year later and DI Lestrade is still carrying this haunted look, like Sherlock Holmes’ death was, somehow, his fault. It’s made him bloody paranoid too, and a stickler for doing things by the book. Which is a good thing: no more running around chasing the coattails of the world’s only consulting detective.

 

 

Lestrade is carrying a cup of coffee and is in the midst of devouring a doughnut. Donovan is glad she skipped breakfast for this particular crime scene.

 

“Get some fire trucks or something in here to block the street, Christ, we don’t need this to turn into another bloody circus,” he orders.

 

“Right, governor.”

DI Lestrade wipes his fingers clean on a napkin that he stuffs in his coat pocket.

 

“Any witnesses?”

 

“Just one, sir, a woman. Sophie Barnes, she’s over with one of the constables, in bit of a shock.”

 

“Can she tell us anything?”

 

“She’s not all that coherent at the moment, sir. There’s a doctor on the way, we may not be able to talk to her until later.”

 

“Great,” Lestrade sighs, “ID on the victim?”

 

Sergeant Donovan shakes her head, “obviously, it’s going to be a bit tricky to get fingerprints from this one.”

 

“Hold this,” he shoves his cup of coffee into her hands and grabs a couple of gloves from a constable. Sally Donovan waits, listening to his curses as he struggles to slide them onto his hands.

 

“We’ve got an estimated time of death, three or four hours or so ago.”

 

“Hm,” Lestrade says in way of agreement and then strides over to the small, plastic sheet someone has erected in front of the victim.

 

Sergeant Donovan crashes into DI Lestrade’s back, spilling coffee all over her jacket.

 

“What the hell-” she cries, frantically wiping at the stain, smearing it over the tan fabric of her coat.

 

Lestrade has gone utterly rigid, and for a moment Sergeant Donovan worries that he’s going to faint or throw.

 

“Guv`?” she asks cautiously and places a gentle hand on his arm. She can feel the tremors through his thick coat. He’s muttering something, but she can’t quite catch his words and when he turns to look at her, his face is pale and drawn. Maybe the sight of the head has unsettled his usually stoic stomach for corpses.

 

“Governor- Greg?” She tries.

 

“I know who it is,” he says, his voice hoarse and tight.

 

“Yeah? Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Gives us a head start on identifying the guy.”

 

DI Lestrade doesn’t say anything, but Sally Donovan sees the muscles in his jaw bunch and clench, as if he’s struggling against something lodged in his throat. Christ. She hopes it isn’t vomit.

 

“Well, who is it?”

 

“It’s Glen Reese.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S Chapter inspired by Jørn Lier Horst (2009)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Molly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the overwhelming support I´ve received for part two of this story. I apologise for the expositions, but there´s some gaps to fill and a plot to get moving. 
> 
> I am still without a Beta-reader and the chapter suffers thusly.
> 
> Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts with me. I love you all!

**Warning:** Graphic description of an autopsy.

 

**Chapter 2.**

 

“Well, there isn’t much to go on,” Molly Hooper says to the head on the dissection table, “has identify been officially confirmed?”

 

“We’ve sent off for his dental records, but apparently that may take a while because his private practitioner closed office a couple of years ago. We’ll have to do a DNA testing to make it official- I can hardly have his mother come down and identify the remains.”

 

Molly winces.

 

“Let’s get started then,” she says, grabs hold of the head and places it on a scale. The scale jingles, the needle dancing back and forth for a moment as the head sways with it.

 

Lestrade winces.

 

“About 11 pounds and 3 ounces, well within normal perimeter,” Molly says, “though, from the excess of cheek and neck tissue, I am guessing the victim was overweight.”

 

She proceeds to measure the length and width of the head and photograph it from every possible angle. Now and again she´ll pause and say “hmmm” in a way that Lestrade has learned to recognize actually means: this is strange, unusual and really _interesting._

 

“Well, with the lack of muscles it’s hard to determine rigor mortis.” Molly smiles, small and tired and her shoulders slumps as she consults her notes, “But I see that Thompson puts it to three and four hours ago and…..” she peers at the serrated wound on Glen Reese’s neck, “I see nothing to refute his conclusion, but honestly, a lot of it is going to be estimations at this stage. You ought to find the rest of him.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lestrade grumbles. He had officers searching every inch of Baker Street. “Was he…. alive when, you know,” he makes a vague gesture in the direction of the dissection table, unable to complete the sentence with, “had his head sawn off.”

 

“I’d say so, you see-”

 

“Bloody hell, spare me the details.”

 

Molly shrugs, and resumes her attention to the head. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room is Lestrade’s feet against the linoleum floor as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Molly moves carefully around the dissection table, taking pictures and swabbing his nose, ears, along his eyes and inside his mouth. She takes samples of his hair and blood. She pries his mouth and shines a light down his throat. Lestrade tries not to think about how he can see the light´s reflection on the surface of the table. Instead, he thinks about the last time he saw Glen Reese alive.

 

It had been at Glen Reese´s trial; just four weeks after Sherlock Holmes tricked the world into believe he had committed suicide. The newspapers had just about lost interest in the story and moved onto a major corruption scandal in one of the biggest banks in Britain. Their interest was rekindled after defense had argued that for Glen Reese it had been a biological imperative to play matchmaker between the consulting detective and his blogger.

 

Alexander Lee Finkle had successfully argued for Glen Reese’s diminished responsibility for his own actions and paved a way for a lenient course for the judge. He was sentenced to counseling in low-security hospital and ten years probation. Glen Reese had been a bumbling, sobbing mess at the trial and the court had to be suspended several times to deal with Glen Reese’s hysterics. The last time Lestrade had seen Glen Reese was when his sentence was proclaimed and Alexander Lee Finkle had led a trembling Glen Reese to the antechamber.

 

It was the last time he had seen John Watson as well.

 

He’d sat on the witness stand, his hands boneless between his knees, his answers succinct and void of any emotion. Lestrade had spent most of the trial avoiding the blank look in John’s eyes, knowing his own would betray him.  He had to stop himself, several times, from reaching out to John and tell him that this was all just a hoax, that John himself was playing the main part in Sherlock’s scheme- he just didn’t know it.

 

John’s unknowing part in Sherlock’s project had been a contested point between Lestrade and Sherlock. Sherlock had insisted that John had to see it believe. John’s certainty was paramount to the success of his plan. People would be scrutinizing John’s reaction and if there was even a shadow of doubt, the plan might fail and people would be in danger. John would be in danger.

 

Sherlock had insisted that under no circumstance must ever John know the truth. John had to play the part of the grieving and the mourning lover. People would be watching John, judging him, and if John could not play the role to perfection, the plan would not work.

 

And John couldn’t act, so John had to think it was real.

 

“There’s something sticky around his mouth, and he’s had some facial hairs pulled. I’m going to take a swab for sampling, but I’d guess he was gagged with tape or something,” Molly says and Lestrade clears his throat a couple of times before he finds his voice.

 

“Is there any other visible bruising?”

 

Molly shakes her head, “I can’t see any lacerations or contusions. I’ll do a throughout search, of course, but finding trace evidence on a head is a time-consuming process. I’ll swabs and analyze for pollen or other microorganisms. A closer examination of the wound might give us some idea about what was used to separate the head from the body, but I’ll need to do some comparisons to be able to tell you anything conclusive.”

 

“Right.”

 

“I’m going to start with the scalp incision,” Molly smiles, “if you’d like to stay and-”

 

“No,” Lestrade says quickly. He’s seen more than enough of Glen Reese. “I’ll just….wait. Outside.”

 

Molly frowns, “it might take a while. I can call you when it’s done.”

 

“I’ll wait.” Lestrade says firmly.

 

 

Four hours later, Molly emerges from the morgue, drying her hands on paper towels, a stack of files tucked under her arm.

 

“My preliminary report,” she says, handing it to Lestrade. He rises, unable to stifle a groan, the seats in the waiting room were obviously not purchased with the act of waiting in mind.

 

“Thanks,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“I’m sorry, but there’s not much to go on.”

 

Lestrade flips through the file, notices the regular schematics and tests results. No alcohol or toxins in his blood. He’ll read them later, again and again, until he’s been able to eke out some evidence or clue that will lead him to the next step.

 

“I’m running further toxicology tests on the blood, but that’s going to be another couple of hours.”

 

Lestrade lets himself fall back into the uncomfortable chair, and a few seconds later Molly follows, sitting gingerly down on the edge, so close their knees are bumping.

 

“So you think this is part of the…” she glances around. The room is empty, but she doesn’t dare complete the sentence. They can’t talk about it. Ever. It’s part of the promise they both swore.

 

“If not, it’s one hell of a coincidence,” Lestrade mutters and drops the file on the empty seat next to him.

 

“I don’t either of us believe in coincidences any more,” Molly replies, “he was even found in Baker Street, wasn’t he and…today of all days.”

 

“Yes,” Lestrade runs a hand through his thinning hair.

 

The anniversary of the death of Sherlock Holmes.

 

Hardly a coincidence.

 

“Do you think it’s a warning?” Molly asks, echoing Lestrade’s thoughts.

 

“I think it’s something. A warning. A commemoration. Hells, it could even be a celebration.”

 

Molly tucks her hands under had armpit and takes a sudden keen interest in the state of her shoes.

 

“Do you think John is in danger?”

 

“The whole point of it was to keep John out of danger. He said he’d eliminated all the other conceivable and unconceivable alternatives and that’s why he had to take that bloody swan dive off the roof.”

 

“I went to see John a couple of weeks after the funeral,” Molly says, “just to…you know…”

 

She’s unable to narrow his myriad of worries down to one single sentence. John all alone in a flat full of memories. The inevitable nightmares that would follow when you witness a loved one throw themselves to their death. Would John manage to soldier on or would he fall to pieces? Sherlock had been confident that John would manage, but Sherlock had for so long seen oblivious to the extent on John’s affection for him.

 

 

“I met their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, she had just been released from hospital. She said John moved about six weeks after the funeral. Didn’t even leave a forwarding address. A few days later some men came and boxed everything up. Mrs. Hudson hasn’t heard from him since. I even called down at the clinic where John used to work and spoke to a doctor, Sarah- something. She said John had stopped answering his phone, so they’d sent his last paycheck to his last known address, Baker Street, and stopped calling him.”

 

Molly shoulders hunch forward, her breath hitching, “Mrs. Hudson thinks he wasn’t coping all that well.”

 

Lestrade goes pale to the tip of his ears, “what do you mean?”

 

Molly balls her fingers into fists, “she had to call the ambulance once, said she found John unconscious in the living room- gave her right a fright. A few days after that, he was just….gone.”

 

“A fresh start and all that. That’s what people do, isn’t it, after a bereavement?” Lestrade says, “ I wasn’t really surprised that he moved, just that he didn’t say goodbye or leave a forwarding address.“

 

Molly nods. Somehow she imagined that John Watson would remain at Baker Street, reading his books, having tea ready. That part of him was subconsciously waiting for Sherlock to return. That part of him knew he would return.

 

“Didn’t you try to track him down?” Molly asks.

 

“Of course,” Lestrade admits.

 

He’d spent a weekend and all the legal tricks he knew, but the last trace of John Watson was his name on Glen Reese’s court hearing. His money hadn’t moved nor had he made any phone calls. Lestrade’s efforts to track John down had been restricted because the last thing he wanted was to draw any attention to himself or John. If John wanted to disappear, then perhaps that was the best thing.

 

“For all I know, he’s left the country,” Lestrade says, “though how he did that without leaving a single trace, well, there’s only one man with such power.”

 

“Oh, right. Sherlock’s brother,” the mere unmentioned of Mycroft makes Molly grimace. She couldn’t really tell if Sherlock had included his brother in his plans or not. At the funeral the blankness in his face had been studied and perfect and bloody creepy.

 

“It’s bloody impossible to get a clear answer from that man.”

 

“Shouldn’t we…..about the death of Mr. Reese?”

 

“I imagine that he already knows.”

 

“So…” Lestrade says after moment of silence. Molly looks up and Lestrade allows his eyes to glance over her, to linger at the creases between her brows, the smudged of makeup on her eyelids. Her hair is tufty and ridiculous and for a moment he can’t take his eyes off her.

 

“How about,” Lestrade searches for his words, “I mean, do you want to grab a drink?”

 

Molly stares at him and Lestrade sees her eyes go soft with surprise. He’s just about to make some half-hearted excuse to get them both out of the invitation without losing his dignity when she answers.

 

“Sure, let me finish up in the office. Half an hour?”

 

 

 

“I wish I could be of more help, detective inspector,” Mrs. Hudson places a plate of biscuits on the table and nudges them towards him. “But I can’t tell you anything new.”

 

“Besides John and Sherlock, you’re the only one who has seen Jacob. Anything at all would be helpful.”

 

Mrs. Hudson lowers herself carefully into her chair. She’s clad in a dark maroon dress that matches her lipstick, her hair coiffed in an attempt to seem younger. Despite her efforts, Lestrade cannot help to notice that there is more gray in her hair than the last time he saw her, or how the veins in her knobby hands are darker.

 

“As I told you the first time you questioned me, I don’t remember much of that day at all. I woke up at the hospital, John was there and… he looked just… and then he told me about Sherlock and….”

 

Her teacup rattles on the cup plate, tea sloshing over the sides of the pale china.

 

Something hard and heavy settles in Lestrade’s chest and he reaches out and places a hand on Mrs. Hudson’s arm, stilling the tremors. Her arm feels thin and bony under the fabric. She smiles, small and brittle and lowers the cup to the table. She pats his hand as if Lestrade is the one in need of comfort.

 

“Thank you, dear. I am really sorry, I wish I could help you, but that day is just one dark spot in my memory. It was just such a terrible day, I suppose I’m lucky I can’t remember it.”

 

Lestrade dredges up a smile and hides his eyes behind the rim of his cup. Will Sherlock ever realize how much suffering his friends must suffer due to his grand plan?

 

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Hudson, I just thought it would be worth a shot now with….”

 

“Oh, that dreadful business with the head?”

 

Lestrade nods.

 

“I saw it on the telly, it was just down the street here, wasn’t it?” There’s a faint tinge to her cheeks. “I feel sorry about the poor man, but it is nice with something to…liven up the dreary days.” Mrs. Hudson says and Lestrade realizes that she’s reminiscing about the good old days, when murder and mystery were commonplace in 221B.

 

“John said Glen Reese visited him once, did you ever meet him?”

 

“Only briefly, he knocked on my door first, thinking that John lived here,” Mrs. Hudson returns to her teacup. “He was a quiet sort of chap, the kind that you think should work in a flower shop or a teahouse. I would never have pegged him to be capable of kidnapping….”

 

“People can surprise us,” Lestrade concedes.

 

“Things have been quiet since John moved,” Mrs. Hudson sighs, “at first there were all these reporters hanging around, but even they gave up. Thank heavens.”

 

“If they were troubling you, you should have called me.”

 

“Oh, they were after John, I fear.”

 

Lestrade doesn’t want to think about the headlines or the photographs. Somebody on the scene had sold their pictures to the newspaper and for days Sherlock’s dead body had been on the front-page of every newspaper and magazine. The press had shown no restraint in their speculation over the reasons for Sherlock’s suicide and for a while it had seemed that explaining why the great detective had killed himself had been a national past time.

 

“Do you ever hear from John?”

 

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, “he didn't even say goodbye. I always though that awfully strange.”  The smile on her face is close-lipped and gentle, “it must have been terrible, seeing- seeing somebody you care for throw themselves-”

 

Lestrade finds refuge in his cooling tea and tries to navigate his thoughts to safer water, but today conversation with Mrs. Hudson is a hollow sea.

 

“I think John’s still in London somewhere,” Mrs. Hudson muses. “I went to put flowers on Sherlock’s grave yesterday. There was a large bouquet of flowers there already. All of them poisonous, of course, which I think Sherlock would have appreciated- if he ever could appreciate such sentiments as flowers.”

 

It startles a laugh from Lestrade and a smile from Mrs. Hudson.

 

“But, you didn’t see John?”

 

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, “poor dear is probably trying to put his life back together again. It’s the best thing really, it was such awful to hear him pace about in the flat day and night like he was haunting the place.”

 

Lestrade dares to enter murkier water; “Molly said John was ill, for a time.”

 

Mrs. Hudson presses her lips together to a thin, white line and suddenly looks ten years older.

 

“Yes. I heard a thump one day, and went upstairs to see what was going on- found the poor dear unconscious on the living room floor. Gave me such a terrible fright. I called the ambulance and it came within seconds.”

 

She leans back against her chair, shaking her head, “John called me that evening, and said everything was alright and that I needn’t bother to come down and visit him. He was back in the flat the next afternoon, and moved that same weekend.”

 

 

The conversation dwindles to a close after that and Lestrade is quick to make his excuse, unable to sit and make small talk with Mrs. Hudson about John and Sherlock while the truth threatens to claw its way out his throat. It is better, Lestrade thinks as he braces himself against the chilly wind, to maintain his distance from the people Sherlock left behind.

 

The next day he enters his office, finds a fresh notepad from his drawer and sets about rereading Molly’s autopsy report. There’s nothing new to learn from it, and that is going to be the mantra for Glen Reese’s case in the days that follows. Lack of evidence. No witnesses, no way forward.  Wherever Jacob or Moriarty might be, they remain well hidden.

 

There, are, however, more drinks with Molly Hooper, and eventually lunches and dinners until one day Lestrade grabs her hand to tug her across the intersection at Piccadilly Circus and he Lestrade realizes that they might actually be dating

 

There’s a development in the banking scandal and the bank director is found hanged in his office.

Four days after that, the first envelope arrives and Lestrade has something new to worry about.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the continued support and kudos I am receiving, you guys are wonderful!
> 
> This chapter has been betaed by bexxavr

 

**Chapter three.**

 

Sally Donovan regrets wearing high heels. Even if they do make her legs look fabulous. She feels the ache of a long day at work and Friday Happy Hour. Somehow, having one drink with Anna Chapman turned into four and she knew she’d probably have continued if she wasn't on call after midnight. She doesn't intend to show up in work with a hangover, even if there’s no Sherlock Holmes to point it out and ridicule her for it.

 

She’d never admit it, but there had been times that she missed the interference of the world’s only consulting detective. He would undoubtedly have found some sick pleasure in seeing Glen Reese’s decapitated head. In fact, if Sherlock Holmes wasn't dead, he’d be on the top of her suspect list.

 

The first weeks and month of the investigation had been an endless parade of bad food, bad coffee, and dead end, after dead end. There had been days when Lestrade couldn’t drink a cup of coffee without it sloshing over the sides, They’d gone over every inch of every report and analysis. They’d combed over every morsel of evidence to such an extent that there were times when Sally  couldn't sleep without seeing crime scene pictures in her dreams. Sherlock Holmes would probably have seen what they had missed.

 

The trail was cold, even before they started.

 

The glue on the tape was from a mass-produced tape that you could buy in almost any store in London. The pole had been made from English oak, the most common tree species in the United Kingdom. The last surveillance footage shows Glen Reese embarking the train in Bristol, heading to London. He had not been seen since. Despite widespread media coverage, no witnesses came forth. The rest of Glen Reese’s body was never recovered.

  
  


Sometimes, Sally  couldn't help but feel that she and Lestrade had been working on two very different angles. She believed that this was a random act of killing and that Glen Reese had been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

 

Lestrade, however, had sometimes acted as though he knew whom the killer was and that it was just a matter of finding him.

 

Of course, they couldn't find him.

 

The case had grown cold and Lestrade had grown increasingly frustrated. He wore a haunted, haggard look. Sometimes he’d show up at work in the same, wrinkled shirt from the day before. Suddenly, Lestrade had become a stickler for doing his paperwork and handing it in on time, always crossing his t’s and dotting the i’s. At one point, Sally Donovan worried that he might suffer a nervous breakdown.

 

But Lestrade had remained stoic in the storm of criticism that hailed over them as the weeks dragged on and they were no closer to solving Glen Reese’s murder.

 

Sally tugs the collar of her coat up against the chill and heads towards the bus stop. It’s the first stop on the 30-minute bus ride that will take her home. The bus is empty, aside from the driver who salutes her with a cup of tea.  She nods, moves to the middle of the compartment and takes a seat next to a heater.  A glance at her watch, tells her there are eight more minutes until the bus is scheduled to depart and so she picks up a discarded newspaper, immediately regretting it when she sees the headline.

 

“New Independent Investigation Launched to Ferret out Crooked Cops.”

  
  


The headline makes her queasy. It’s not the first one, and it’s not going to be the last one. It wasn't only the pressure of the murder of Glen Reese that hung like Damocles’s sword over them.

 

Almost a year ago, an independent investigation was suddenly launched by MPs who claimed to be in possession of “disturbing evidence of widespread police corruption.” Nobody had managed to uncover what kind of evidence it was or how the MPs have gotten ahold of it, but it was widely speculated that it came from a higher ranking officer in the Metropolitan police.

  
  


When the news broke in the media, they had all been subjected to hearings and inquiries. For months, nobody dared to put so much as a toe out of line.

 

The inquests had soon overshadowed their attempts to catch Glen Reese’s  killer.

 

The initial investigation had discovered that several police officers were involved in bribes, leaking information, stealing property during raids, fabricating evidence, illegal phone hacking, surveillance and relations with organized crimes.  Internal Affairs had soon enforced severe changes while they conducted their investigation.  Officers had been demoted, suspended or reassigned to different counties. (Though why Anderson had been moved to the tiny village of Low Row in Yorkshire was anybody’s guess.) Even Lestrade was suspended for a week while the inquest went over his records with a fine toothcomb. Thankfully, he was soon back behind his desk, acting like nothing had happened.

 

Those with designation Alpha on their file had been the first to come under suspicion and the first to resign when things got heated.

 

The media had not been subtle in their speculations that this problem was far larger than the meager numbers offered by the investigation and that it not limited to junior Alpha officers. The problem, some claimed, had roots to the higher ranks. This was organized and widespread. It was an endemic. The Independent had gone so far as to speculate if the organized crime networks in England had the ability to infiltrate and manipulate the police at will.

 

Sally Donovan tosses the newspaper aside and feels the rattle of the bus thrumming to life. That’s when she sees her.  

 

A woman bursts out from the darkness and comes running down the street. She must be an athlete of some sort because she is running very fast. Sally rises and moves towards the bus doors to get a better view of the woman, half expecting an ax-wielding maniac to come chasing after her.

 

But the street behind her is empty.

 

The woman is her early thirties with long unkempt hair and wearing shoes with such high heels, it should be impossible to run in them. Sally frowns. The woman is doing small, odd, jumps as she runs, leaping two steps right and then left, never repeating the pattern.

 

Maybe she’s high or mentally disturbed, Sally Donovan thinks, nobody in their right mind runs like that.

 

Despite her speed, the woman doesn’t make it. The doors slide shut right in front of her. The woman slams into the doors and it feels like the whole carriage shakes.

 

For a moment they lock eyes through the window. It lasts for only two heartbeats, but it’s long enough for Sally to notice several things about the woman. There’s wrinkles along her eyes that makes her seem older than she probably is, beads of sweat prickles down her forehead and into her eyes, wild, wide and terrified. She hammers her fists on the glass and then points a trembling finger at Sally Donovan.

 

Or rather, something behind her.

 

Sally turns around, but there is nothing behind her, she’s the only passenger in the bus.

 

The bus pulls out into the traffic and Sally Donovan remains standing by the door a few second more, watching the woman. She lingers for a second on the bus stop, turning her head left, then right. Then she runs off into the darkness. Doing her little hops right and left.

 

It’s not until Sally steps off the bus, that she realizes that the woman probably had been pointing at the emergency brakes.

 

Sally doesn’t quite manage to shake the image of the terrified woman’s face against the window. It follows her to bed and lingers in her dreams. She sees the woman’s odd run, her jumps and leaps. Why would anyone run like that?

 

When her cell phone jolts her out of her sleep just past midnight, it’s with a sickening feeling. She wipes the grit of sleep out off her eyes and glances at the red, blurry numbers of today’s date. She knows why she’s being called out.

 

The lorry driver is a mess of snot and tears.

 

“She was just lying in the road,” he repeats, “and it was so dark, it was impossible to see her until-until, and then I couldn’t stop.”

 

The driver seems to calm down after Sally assures him that he is not currently suspected of any criminal negligence and entrusts his care to a female constable.

 

The scene has been cordoned off, and a tarp pulled over the body to protect it from the light rain. She pulls the tarp away and recognizes the high-heeled shoes first, and then the blonde hair.

  
  


Crime scene technician Albert Thompson offers her a tired nod, before he gestures to the body.

 

 “The lorry was trying to stop when it hit her, but the woman’s upper torso is so badly damaged that it’s going to take further analysis determine if she was dead at the time of impact.”

 

Albert Thompson pulls the tarp away, “Face is intact though, should make it easy to identify her,” and Sally stares down at the woman’s face, stiff and pale with the same wide, terrified eyes.  

 

If she had just urged the bus driver to stop and wait, would this woman be alive?

 

“I think,” Sally says, “you’ll find that she was shot.”

 

Albert Thompson raises a bushy eyebrow at her.

 

“I saw her…earlier. She was running, jumping left and right, I didn’t think much about it then, but now I think…maybe she was trying to make herself a more difficult target for whoever was pursuing her.”

 

“You could be right,” Albert Thompson concedes, “or she could just have been waiting for the next car to drive by and flung herself into the road.”

 

“Lorry driver says she was already on the ground,” Sally points out, “if you want to take your own life, there are better, more….efficient ways.”

 

Like jumping off a tall building.

 

“Ma’am," a young constable calls, beckoning Sally over to the police car.  The constable is one of those young, fresh-faced youths that she cannot help but resent just a little bit.

 

“She was wearing this,” he holds up a clear evidence bag with a small, black plastic device. “It’s a tracking device, the kind we use on prisoners who-”

 

“Yes, I know what it is,” Sally Donovan snaps. The constable’s mouth quirks in a passive smile.

 

“Identity?” Sally  demands.

 

“Jane Hill, ma’am, currently serving eight consecutive years for kidnapping, impersonating an officer and-”  Sally feels something hard and sharp settle in her chest.

 

“Why was she out?”

 

“She got a weekend pass to go to her sister’s funeral. She was scheduled to report to Holloway Castle at eight am today.”

 

Glen Reese had also been out to visit a relative.

 

This was hardly a coincidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Hans Olav Lahlum.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only offer my most sincere apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I've had a terrible case of writer's block and I've written about four different versions of it and it still ends up with more expositions and world building than I'd like. I can only promise you that the next chapter will bring the plot along.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who are still leaving me kudos and comments, it's thanks to you that I'm managing to write anything at all. <3
> 
> This chapter is unbeated.

**Chapter four.**

 

Rain slashes across the windows, obscuring the view of the dreary courtyard of the New Scotland Yard. Christ. It’s been raining nonstop for three days, long enough to make anyone depressed. Two weeks, Lestrade reminds himself. Fourteen days and seven hours until his holiday.

 

Lestrade returns to his desk sinks into his chair and picks up the newspaper. But the picture is even more depressing than the dark courtyard.  It’s the same dreary stuff that has been headlines for weeks. The front-page is dominated by a large picture of people standing in line outside one of the major banks of Britain, an echo of images of the Great Depression.

 

_Millions Lose Savings in Banking Collapse._

 

Lestrade grits his teeth and tries not to think about the letter he had received three weeks ago, advising him to move his money. He had urged Molly to do the same and then he’d spent the next few days with a sharp coil in his chest.

 

A few days, Lestrade received a familiar white envelope. With a mouth that suddenly felt like it was made of sandpaper, he had handed it to his superiors. The Chief Superintended had looked at him with thinly veiled suspicion. Was he going to reveal his source? No. Is this information going to lead to another national scandal? Most likely.

 

Hours later, with a hand wrapped around a bottle of beer, he tried to quench the unease that churns in his stomach, waiting for the news to break.

 

What was Sherlock planning to do?  What had he uncovered- which of Moriarty’s strings was he going to cut this time? What were the consequences?

 

Four days later, he knew the answer and the term Red Monday was born.

 

The following days had been an utter and complete nightmare.

 

Arrests orders had been given to major banking executives, stockbrokers, major shareholders, and investors. It had been a messy affair, one guy- a Mr. Arthurby had leaped from his twelfth story window and onto a crowd of spectators. Two people injured and Mr. Arhurby had to be scraped off the pavement. When they went to arrest Mrs. Crawford, they had heard the pop of a gun and found her slumped on the floor in her office.  The worst of it was that the money was gone- spirited away to foreign bank accounts and empty shell companies that didn’t really exists.

 

The rest was, as the financial analysts for the BBC called it, was a Domino Effect.

 

Millions lost their savings. Business went bankrupt, unemployment skyrocketed, and forced enclosures on houses and property put immense pressure on the Council Housing program and welfare payment, which the councils tried to ease with increased taxes. By the end of summer, the rates for violent crimes and offenses were the highest in the post-war era. In the wake of the corruption scandal last year, the public trust in the police was at an all time low and they felt helpless to tackle the increasing violence.

 

 

 

It did not take the media long to realize that the men and women responsible for the economic upheaval were all Alphas and Omegas. Two months later, a former sergeant was found hanged outside his house in Wickford, followed by financial solicitor shot in Tilbury. By the end of October, Doctor Alexander Lee Finkle founded a political party called True Britain. It promised to hold Alphas and Omegas accountable for the money they had stolen. Within a few weeks, social media were flourishing with hatred-fueled messages promising revenge. Alphas were violent and unstable, a social menace who had sucked Britain dry. They had to be controlled. Secured in a way that would stop them from ever bringing ruin to Britain again. It gained immense popularity. There was nobody who openly drew parallels to history, but they were evident enough.

Lestrade tosses the old newspaper away. He doesn’t want to think about this, he does’ want to think about his part in all this.

 

He turns to the window, watches the raindrops crawl down the glass, feels the cool autumn air seep through the windowpane.  Three months until the next anniversary, and only Simon Whitewell and John Watson left.

 

Bloody hell. Why hasn’t Sherlock  managed to track down this Jacob? Wasn’t John’s safety more important than disentangling Moriarty’s web?

Does he realize the impact the unraveling of Moriarty’s web has on his own city?  Sherlock isn’t going recognize the London he returns to.

 

He fishes up a folded lunch that Molly made him in an attempt to make him eat healthier. He’ll eat it because he loves her- but he will also have a bacon butty later on, because he loves bacon too. He unwraps the paper, lifts the top layer of bread and peers at the listless piece of lettuce and tomatoes. He’s going to have some crisps too.

 

Lestrade has just finished his first sandwich and is contemplating eating the carrot sticks or chucking them in the bin when there is a soft knock on the door.

 

“Come on in,” Lestrade calls.

 

A young man steps in. He’s about twenty-five, stockily built with blonde, close-curled hair. He’s dressed in a freshly pressed suit and polished shoes. Definitely a newly appointed police constable.

 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

 

Lestrade waves him into his office.

 

“Some neighbors are reporting a break-in, but, sir-” he adds preemptively interrupting Lestrade before he’s managed to open his mouth, “I know it’s not your department, but I was told if you were to be informed if there was any news from, well, sir, the apartment is in 221 Baker Street.”

 

Lestrade goes cold.

 

“What’s your name, constable?”

 

“Barnett, sir.”

 

“Thank you, constable Barnett. I’ll handle it. If anyone asks for me, tell them I’m out at lunch.”

 

Barnett stares at the remains of the sandwich in Lestrade’s hands.

 

“Will do, sir.”

 

“Good man, “ Lestrade tosses the food into his bin and hurries out through the door, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

 

Could it finally be....

 

It’s been near two years since he last visited 221B Baker Street. It had been shortly after Glen Reese’s head had been found on a stake and Lestrade still had hopes of a swift resolution to Sherlock’s operation. He’s not seen Mrs. Hudson since. The only way he can keep Sherlock’s secrets is by avoiding the people he’s keeping it from.

 

Somehow, Molly is better at it. She stops by Mrs. Hudson at least once a week. She’s been up at 221B too and she would have told him if the flat had been let. Lestrade wonders if it’s a way to keep everything ready for Sherlock’s return. As if Sherlock is going to have his great dramatic return and then it will just be business as usual. Crime solving and tea at noon at 221 B.

 

The wind picks up and by the time Lestrade arrives at the Baker Street tube station, it seems to be raining from every direction. There are a few people on the street, bracing against the storm and looking just as wet and miserable as Lestrade. Even Speedy has rolled up his awning.

 

The door to 221 opens easily and Lestrade sees a wet trail of footprints leading up to apartment B.

 

He frowns. Hardly the work of a master criminal, or befitting consulting detective.

 

Lestrade takes the steps slowly. He can almost picture Sherlock sitting in that ridiculous chair of his, immaculately dressed, fingers steepled and looking all disapproved at Lestrade for his tardiness.

 

The door slides open and Lestrade steps inside. There’s a metal cane resting by the door. The apartment reeks of stale air, dust and what he fears might be one of Sherlock’s old experiments. The lights are on in the living room. He pauses in the corridor. 

 

Yes, there it is.

 

The sound of footsteps in the living room. An exasperated sigh. A heavy object pushed over the floor followed by quiet cursing. Lestrade steps into the living room.

 

He freezes.

 

Bloody hell.

 

 

He watches John manhandle a large, cardboard box across the room. He stops. Holds his breath. Lestrade can see the muscles in his back dance under his sweater. Christ. They were both expecting Sherlock Holmes and now he’ll get to see John’s heart break all over again.

 

John turns, scrubs a hand across his face, and hides whatever expression was waiting.

 

“Hello, John,” Lestrade fights to keep his face blank. Their eyes meet and John gives him little half smile, like they are a couple of old mates meeting up for a drink after a long day at work. As if it hasn’t been almost three years since they last saw each other.

 

“Inspector,” he nods politely, “what are you doing here?”

 

“Neighbors reported a break-in.”

 

“Oh,” John looks apologetic, “I don’t have the key and Mrs. Hudson wasn’t around….so I let myself in,” and then, “I didn’t know breaking-and-entering was your division.”

 

“When I heard the address, I said I- well, Mrs. Hudson’s visiting an old friend, I promised I’d keep an eye on the place” Lestrade lies.

 

John, of course, knew that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t at home; he was avoiding her, like he had been avoiding all his other contacts in London.

 

“Well, sorry to drag you all the way out here,” John says, sounding sincere.

 

Lestrade scratches the back of his neck, wracking his brain for something intelligent to say.

 

John looks different. He looks weary, his hair plastered flat to his skull by the rain. He was always lean, but now he looks thin and worn, with drooping eyelids and a stained jumper.

 

John catches Lestrade’s gaze. He frowns, turns away and shrugs on his jacket, zips it close.

 

“I was just coming to….” John makes a vague gesture at the stack of boxes in the living room.

 

First now Lestrade sees the small box he’s got tucked under his arm. He wants to ask what is in it. Why did John come out of hiding to collect it?

 

Instead he says.

 

“So, how have you been?”

 

“You know,” John curls a hand around the back of his neck and sighs, “getting on.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his free hand settling at the small of his back.

 

“You moved?” Lestrade asks, even if it’s a question with an obvious answer.

 

“Yes,” John’s smile is at odds with the tensions around his eyes. His shoulders slump in resignation, “south,” he offers unhelpfully.

 

Lestrade wants to ask for clarification, wants answers to the questions that are churning around in his head. Where does he really live? Why did he disappear? Why didn’t he keep in touch with any of them- not even Mrs. Hudson? Why did he come back?

 

He says nothing. It’s the coward’s way out, but John looks almost brittle, like a sudden breeze from the window would knock him over. Christ.

 

“Well, take care,” John squares his shoulders as if he’s preparing himself for battle.

 

“You don’t want to grab lunch?”

 

John halts in the doorway, his grip on the box tightening.

 

“Sorry, maybe another time,” he says in the way you make a promise you never intend to keep, “I got to catch a train. Take care, Lestrade.”

 

“Erh, yeah, take care John,” Lestrade calls and watches John disappear down the corridor, hears his footsteps echoing down the stairs, the sound of the door closing.

 

Lestrade scrubs a hand across his face. Stares at the fuzzy contours of the apartment, the stacks of boxes and dust covers.  The only evidence that John was actually is the damp impression of his footprints across the floor.

 

Molly is going to chide him for not making more of an effort. For not running after John or dragging more answers out of him. But he’s hardly in a position to demand the truth from John Watson, when he’s keeping the biggest one from him.

 

He walks out of the living room, down the empty corridor. He closes the door to 221B and locks it, rattles the doorknob to make sure it’s securely locked.

 

It’s two weeks until he’ll be sifting sand between his toes and watching the constellation of freckles appear on Molly’s naked back. It’s seven months until the anniversary and he has to figure out how to keep Simon Whitewell and John Watson safe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an early, but unbeated chapter, all you lovely folks. Thank you for your support!

 

 

 **Warnings:** Graphic description of a crime scene.

 

**Chapter 5.**

 

 

During the early hours of Tuesday morning, the fog crept in over London with gray, spindly, tendrils. The two children can hardly see more than a meter ahead as they cross the school yard. They navigate by memory, their steps timid, searching. The schoolyard is silent.

 

They boy walks a few steps behind his sister, his tiny hands wrapped tightly around the straps of his backpack.

 

“Don’t leave me!”

 

The girl stops. The fog settles on her hair and she wipes a few drops of water away as she waits impatiently for her brother. He had spoken in Punjabi, something he hardly ever did and never ever to her. She sees his dark shape in the fog, walks over to him to him and grabs his tiny hand. His hand feels cold and moist in hers. She looks around, but it is impossible to see anything.

 

“Saanvi, are we lost?”

 

His voice is small and frightened, his fingers dig into the palm of her hand.

 

“No, we’re fine.”

 

She gives his hand a firm squeeze and then picks a random direction. She takes a few steps forward and then stops. Her brother presses himself closer to her, his breathing ragged.

 

“We really are lost!”

 

“No, we’re not lost, stupid.”

 

“It was light at mommy’s.”

 

“And soon it’s going to be light here as well.”

 

Saanvi tries to sound braver than she feels, tries to convince herself that there is nothing to worry about. It is just some silly fog and the school yard isn’t that big. All they have to do is to continue forwards and then they’ll reach the front doors.

 

“We’re not supposed to go with strangers, right, Saanvi? No matter what happens, we mustn't talk to strangers.”

 

His voice quivers and she pulls him even closer, drags him along as she takes a few more hesitant steps forwards.  And then, suddenly they see the counters of a looping roof.

 

Her brother lets go of her hand as soon as they reach the main entrance. He scurries inside and quickly forgets that moments ago he had been on the verge of tears. Saanvi follows him down the corridor until they reach the large-double doors to the gym.

 

“Do you want to play soccer, Saanvi? You’re brilliant at soccer.”

 

“Did you hang up your coat and backpack properly.”

 

He nods at her with large, brown eyes.

 

“I thought so, go and do it.”

 

He shuffles away and returns a few minutes later asking her to play again.

 

“I need to read through my homework first, just start and I’ll be right with you.”

 

She finds a chair and fishes a book up from her backpack. Her brother runs past her with a soccer ball clutched between his hands. He disappears into the gym and for a few seconds she listens the sound of the ball thudding against the wall. Then it goes quiet.

 

Saanvi looks up from her book.

 

“Are you coming soon?”

 

“Yeah, just gotta finish this chapter.”

 

Her brother eyes the book suspiciously. It looks thick. With a huff, he disappears back into the gym and Saanvi returns her attention to the book. She closes her eyes, pretends she’s part of the story. Pretends she didn’t hear her mother cry last night. Her father shouting. They think she’s too young to understand, but she knows that the bank closed and took all their money. That her mother works three different jobs and that her father can’t find employment because he’s an Alpha.

 

“There’s no room to play.”

 

Saanvi looks up at her brother again.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because there're some guys hanging there.”

 

“Then play around them or ask them to move,” she sighs.

 

A few minutes he’s back in front of her. This time she didn’t even hear him approach.

 

“I don’t like the men,” he sniffles.

 

Saanvi wrinkles her nose.

 

“Did you fart?”

 

“No! But I don’t like those men. I think somebody cut them.”

 

With a frustrated sigh, she rises from the chair and walks over to the door to the gym, her brother right at her heels.

 

Three men are suspended by a rope around their neck attached to the ceiling. Blood has painted red rivulets on their skin.

 

“Don’t you think it’s disgusting?”

 

“Yes,” Saanvi replies and closes the doors. She puts her arms around her brother.

 

“Shall we play outside instead?”

 

“No, we’re not going to play soccer. We’re going to find an adult.”

 

 

 

 

 

A couple of hours later, Detective Inspector Lestrade stands outside Tyrrells Primary School, Chelmsford Essex, staring out into the relentless rainfall. Less than three hours ago he’d been enjoying his first proper holiday in a decade. Now he’s back to rain and murder in a primary school.

 

A police constable  is guiding her canine partner to search between the sandboxes, swings and the seesaw on the playground. Another constable, lacking suitable rain gear, has tied a plastic bag from Tesco around her head. The constable walks over to the canine patrol and they exchange a few words, pointing at the schoolyard, their heads bent against the rain.

 

Lestrade turns his attention to the school building. A low, brick building with a dark roof. The “P” from Primary is missing. Blue and yellow flowers and frolicking woodland creatures cling to the peeling paint.  The school yard has been cordoned off. It does little to hinder the curious onlookers from gathering beyond the tape. Flashes from mobile cameras. Christ. The story probably reached the internet before the first responder arrived on the scene. He sees a couple of large vans from the BBC and a camera scanning the crowd. He makes a note to request a copy of the tape later, the killer might have returned to enjoy the spectacle he created.

 

“Sorry about your honeymoon, guv ”

 

Sally Donovan appears out of the rain, a massive, blue umbrella in her hand.

 

“Got a couple of days, at least,” Lestrade shrugs and ducks under Sally’s umbrella.

 

“So, why have I been dragged all the way out to Essex? Isn’t this something for the local police?” He has to raise his voice to be heard over the drumming of the rain.

 

Sally’s eyes darken, her fingers white around the umbrella. “This is bad, sir. I don’t think- it’s probably the worst thing I’ve seen.”

 

Lestrade frowns. Sally’s never been squeamish, not even at crime scenes involving dead children. Suddenly he dreads the sight that’s put those shadows in her gaze.

 

“Walk me through it.”

 

“This way,” Sally gestures to the side entrance, and they hurry across the drenched school yard. Once inside, Sally shakes rain off her umbrella and leads Lestrade down a narrow, green corridor and through double glass doors.

 

The library had been commandeered to on-site headquarters. Constables are milling back forth. The first hours are the most critical ones and as many sources as possible are located to gather evidence and compile witness statement. It’s grueling, painstaking work, and while Lestrade sometimes feels like there’s too many chiefs compared to indians, it’s crucial to build the foundation of their investigation.

 

Two of the shelves have been emptied, the content put on the floor by the window and the book case filled with police folders. There’s a large table in the middle with stacks of papers, pencils and laptops. A whiteboard has been placed in front of the blackboard and on it somebody attached a blueprint of the school. It’s crooked, but three red dots marks the location of the bodies in the gym.

 

Lestrade shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over a tiny chair. He loosens his tie. This is going to be a long day.

 

“Give me the chronology and our current status.”

 

Sally Donovan begins the account, starting with the mother who had dropped her two kids off in the parking lot at 06:15 and continues.

 

“It’s the first day of school after term break. The kids go to their classrooms, hangs up their coats and backpacks and then meet by the gym in the A-wing, to play soccer,” she takes a brief pause, “in the gym they discover three bodies. The oldest child, the sister, tries to find a teacher or an adult, but she can’t find anyone. She calls the emergency services from a phone in the teacher’s lounge and is connected to the local police station. The call is logged at 06:48.”

 

Lestrade frowns, “aren’t those kids at school really early?”

 

“Yeah,” Sally agrees, “I wondered about that and questioned the headmaster. It turns out the school has a handful of kids that are dropped off hours before school starts. They all know about this problem, but for some parents it’s just an impossible time crunch. The kids are too young to sort themselves at home, and so the parents have no choice but to drop them off early.”

 

“Very well, please proceed.”

 

Sally studies her notes, “where was I…ah, yes. So the girl is told to wait, and dispatch sends a uniformed constable to the scene. He arrives on scene at 07:26  and has to remove an additional eight children from the gym.”

 

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade groans. He can already picture the paperwork and the newspaper headlines. Contaminated crime scene, traumatized children.

 

“It’s a bit of a mess, sir. At any rate, the constable calls for backup and the second car arrives at 07:45.”

 

“Christ, why the hell did it take them so long to respond?”

 

“They didn’t immediately believe the girl when she called, because, well I don’t want to repeat what he said-”

 

“Why are you covering for this idiot, do you know him?”

 

Sally hides her expression behind her notebook, but not before Lestrade sees the blush tinting her cheeks. 

 

Lestrade frowns, his eyes narrowing to slits, but he does’t prod. He’s known Sally Donovan for almost ten years, he’s seen her ups and downs, her strength and weaknesses. The last couple of years have seen her come into her true potential as a investigator. She’s efficient, relentless and there were rumors about a potential promotion. Lestrade doesn’t want to sabotage that because of her tendency to form those unfortunate romantic liaisons, that have developed into something of a legend down at the Yard.

 

“Go on.”

 

“The school ground is closed and the children are sent home. The staff gathers in the teacher’s lounge- the call for reinforcement from London is made. I arrive at 09:30- I call you and inform the police commissioner and get a hold of Thompson and then I get request every available resource: constables, officers, crime scene technicians, canine patrol and…well, here we are.”

 

“Why do we need the canine patrol?”

 

“We’re looking for body parts, their um…” Sally pauses, summons her courage, “they are missing their genitalia.”

 

Lestrade goes rigid,”shite.” Why could’t he ever have an uncomplicated crime scene? One without messages from the victim, taunts from the killer or missing body parts?

 

Not for the first time, he wishes Sherlock was around.

 

He combs a hand through his hair, “did you enter the gym?”

 

“No. I stood in the door way. The technicians are still walking around in their space suits, like something out of a creepy science fiction horror movie,” Sally lowers her note book, her dark eyes meets Lestrade.

 

“Sir, the children,the teachers, the headmaster not to mention the very angry parents are  hysterical. The publicity is going to be an utter nightmare.”

 

“I know,” Lestrade says, it had been the first thing on his mind after all. “Has any of the victims been identified?”

 

Sally nods and then gestures for Lestrade to follow her across the room to a small table set up at the end. On it sits three cardboard boxes. Inside are shirts, shoes, socks, pants, and underwear, neatly folded, tagged and put in clear evidence bags.

 

“Where they found like this?”

 

“Yes. They were folded and placed at the back of the gym. On top were their drivers licenses, they wanted these guys easily identified. Here-”

 

Sally pulls something out of the middle box and wordlessly hands it over to Lestrade.

 

Simon Whitewell.

 

“But- it’s not-”

 

Lestrade glances down at the wide-eyed and pimpled face of Simon Whitewell’s driver license photo.

 

“The anniversary is months away- why-”

 

“Maybe this is unrelated,” Sally suggests, “maybe it’s just a coincidence,” she tries to sound more convincing than she feels.

 

“I was informed that Simon Whitewell was in secure custody of Her Majesty’s prison service.”

 

Sally nods slowly and Lestrade can read the bad news in her expression before she’s put it to words.

 

“You ordered him moved, sir, three months ago-”

 

“Wait,” Lestrade raises a hand, “I never ordered anything of the sort-”

 

Wordlessly, Sally flickers through her papers, and then pulls out a paper, handing it to Lestrade.

 

He stares down at the prison transfer requests. Reads his own identification number and the looping signature that is almost unmistakingly his. Almost. Because he recognizes the signature in the signature, so to speak. The little tell-tale clue he’s learned to find in the curls of the s’s and that tells him that the forger is Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry to keep you all waiting, but is a lot more effort than I had ever thought.
> 
> I wish to thank all of you kind and wonderful people who have given me comments, encouragements and kudos here and on tumblr. Without you support, I´d have given up long ago.
> 
> This chapter is unbetated.

**Warning for description of murders.**

 

Five weeks ago the home secretary opened a state-of-the-art forensic mortuary in Westminster. Molly had been looking forward to the opening for months, going on about all the new and fantastic equipment that purchased for the mortuary.

"It can store over a hundred bodies" she’d enthused over lunch "and CCTV with a live link to the post mortem rooms allows senior officers and investigations to watch the forensic pathologist at work without the smell."

 

Lestrade had listened to her and smiled because no matter how cold and dreadful the day, week or even month, Molly’s exuberance for her work was always warming.

 

Lestrade considered himself fairly opened minded when it comes to changes and advancement in technology. Sure he’d struggled with his smart TV and his bloody smartphone, but he’d conquered them all in the end. However, when it comes to a homicide investigation he prefers the old fashioned approach.

 

Which is why he’s standing in the foyer of the impressive facade at Westminister at seven in the morning, waiting for doctor Phil Coleman.

 

Doctor Coleman is who is rumored to have been born with his harsh, grim and unwelcoming expression. He’s a skinny, balding man that reminds Lestrade a little too much about the company he seems to keep in the mortuary.

 

"Detective inspector," he says with a voice a few degrees below freezing point. "This way, if you’d please." With a thin hand, he beckons Lestrade to follow him down a long, sleek corridor. Lestrade simply nods and follows, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

 

There is almost something eerie about the modern steel instruments, like taken right out of a science fiction movie, and the grayish internal organs, preserved for decades in alcohol.

 

Doctor Coleman starts the procedure with the classical presentation, listing every fact and figure about the deceased. An hour later there was nothing that indicated that he was nearing the end. Lestrade worries he might nod off, and feels himself jerk away when Doctor Coleman finally mentions something that might aid the investigation.

 

“Time of death has been determined to occur somewhere between 11 am and noon on Sunday.»

 

Doctor Coleman consults his notes, “two of the three died as a result of a broken neck and so we can conclude death by hanging. The third one was suffocated. All victims were incapacitated by Stesolid about one to two hours before death.»

 

“I’ve never heard of Stesolid,”Lestrade said, “what is it?»

 

“It’s yours basic copy of Dizapemaum, primarily used to treat severe anxiety, epileptic, and febrile convulsion. It’s a sedative that controls muscle spasm and has also been used to manage alcohol withdrawal symptoms.»

 

“Is this an over-the-counter-kind-of-drug?»

 

Doctor Coleman nods, “quite so. It was prescribed by the prison physician, a doctor Andrew Lewis to Simon Whitewell, who had been suffering from severe panic attacks for the last two years.»

 

No wonder, Lestrade thinks, he must have realized that he was next on the list.

 

“I doubt he is the source of the Stesolid, however,”Doctor Coleman adds, “the drug was given intravenously, they all have very distinguishing needle marks on their right arm." He gestures to Simon Whitwell's bluish arm.

 

"The concentration of the drug is identical, almost to the deciliter in all victims.»

 

“Meaning?»

 

“Meaning that they have been given an accurate dose that correspond to their body weight, and there is only one needle mark, which makes me think that-”

 

“That whoever administrated the drugs knew what he was doing. So, perhaps a professional medical worker, a doctor or a nurse.»

 

Doctor Coleman nods.

 

“Was the dose high enough to incapacitate them?»

 

“No, the concentration was not all high. If I was to make a guess, I would say it was done to make the victims more…pliable, easier to dictate. Slow and feeble for a couple of hours.»

 

“What else did you discover?»

 

“Bruising on their hands and feet, traces of glue on their ankles and arms. Sample of the glue has been sent to the lab.»

 

Doctor Coleman then proceeded with a detailed description of the result of the blood  analysis, going into excruciating detail about the angle of the blood splatter and the instruments used to remove the testicles of the three victims. By the end, Lestrade thinks that, for the first time since he was a rookie, he might actually be sick.

 

“Would you say the incisions was done by somebody who knew what they were doing?»

 

Doctor Coleman shrugs, “this is hardly something that is covered in basic medical school, but there are no hesitation marks and the cuts are smooth and even. Whoever did it, had a steady hand and enough experience with a scalpel to perform clean and precise incisions.»

 

Lestrade tries to sort out the hundreds of little voices, whispering implications, listing up people who would fit Doctor Coleman’s criteria.

 

“There was very little blood found on the crime scene, wouldn't….”Lestrade makes a vague gesture to the corpse on the slab, unable to complete the sentence.

 

“Bleed a lot?”Doctor Coleman cranes his neck as if the answer to Lestrade’s question is written in the ceiling.

 

“Certainly, but plastic to cover the floor and paper to soak up the blood should do the trick.»

 

“Paper?»

 

“Newspaper?”Doctor Coleman shrugs.

 

Lestrade closes his eyes for a moment and gathers his scattering thoughts.

 

“So, how does this sound as a possible scenario. The victims are drugged and then led into the gym where they are stripped of their clothing. Naked and with bound hands and feet, probably by a strong tape of a sort. They have stood on…a stool or a chair with a noose around their neck. Then the chair has been kicked away. Immediately after death the killer….removed the testicles.»

 

Doctor Coleman nods, “that sounds plausible inspector. Overall, it would not have taken more than two hours, tops, to kill the victims and clear the evidence. Efficient, but a grim and ghastly scene.»

 

“Were the incisions performed by the same person?”

 

“There is nothing to indicate that it was performed by two different persons.»

 

Somehow, despite everything he has learned from Doctor Coleman, Lestrade leaves the morgue with more questions than answers.

 

 

It’s past lunchtime before Lestrade finds the time to sit down and contemplate the meaning of Sherlock Holmes faking his signature.

 

He stares at the copy of the prison transfer request. It’s a standard form, but they are only used in extenuating circumstances, where the has been a deal made with the Courts or good behaviour has allowed the prisoner to transfer from a maximum to minimum risk facility.

 

Lestrade had considered moving Simon Whitewell to a more secure location in anticipation of the anniversary. In the end, though, he had abandoned the thought because both Glen Reese and Jane Hill had been killed when they were on leave from prison. The strategy had worked twice for the murderer and Lestrade figured he’d try his luck a third time.

 

Had Sherlock been trying to use Simon Whitewell as a bait, and somehow it all went horribly wrong?

 

It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock gambled with the lives of others.

 

Was it a message from Sherlock?

 

And if so, what was he saying?

 

Is he trying to tell Lestrade that he anticipated these murders? Or is this is a subtle way of telling him that he is, in fact, behind it all?

 

What was it Sally Donovan used to tell anyone who’d listen? That one day Sherlock would tire of playing detective, that some day investigation a murder wouldn't be enough for him.

 

No, that’s….no.

 

Lestrade wipes a hand across his face, steering his mind onto another path. If Sherlock had been behind these gruesome murders there would be absolutely no clues pointing in his direction.

 

He stares at the paper until the letters start to swim and he rubs away the hazy dots in front of his eyes.

 

Sudden comprehension hurls him to alertness.

 

The paperwork was filed only three days ago. Christ, it means that three days ago Sherlock Holmes wandered into the Yard and filed this with the internal inquest. 

 

Sherlock Holmes is back.

 

 

Lestrade walks the seventeen steps up to apartment B as slowly as he could, using the time to resign himself to the fact that Sherlock Holmes was actually back in England, in London, is this very flat.

 

He tries to reconjure the image from his last visit to 221 B, the one of Sherlock in that posh chair, with steepled fingers and looking put out with Lestrade’s tardiness in figuring out Sherlock’s oh-so-subtle clues.

 

He isn’t quite prepared for the utter chaos that he finds.

 

The boxes that had, a few days ago, been neatly stacked now lies spread around the flat as if Sherlock had been throwing them around. A few were open, their contents of clothes, books, kitchen utensils, beakers, maps, newspapers spilling out over the floor. The sheets have been pulled off the furniture and discarded were they fell. For one maddening moment, Lestrade wonders if Sherlock had been actually looking for John under those sheets.

 

Sherlock stands in the middle of the room, his hands carded into his dissolved hair, his back ramrod straight.

 

Lestrade simply stands, allows himself a few seconds to realign this image of Sherlock with the one he saw three years ago. The consulting detective has always been slender, but now he seems to drown in his peacoat. His hair is longer too, a mass of dark curls with unmissable streaks of grey in it.

 

He turns, a swirl of black, his eyes hazy as the London fog.

 

“Lestrade,”he says cooly, schooling his features.

 

“Sherlock,”Lestrade tries for an even tone of voice, “you’re back then?»

 

“Obviously,”Sherlock replies in that exasperated tone of voice he uses whenever he’s confronted with the stupidity of the human race. 

 

Lestrade makes a futile effort to stop his lips from quirking in a smile.

 

There, there is the Sherlock he recognizes.

 

There is a short silence, and then Sherlock strides across the room, grabbing the massive, black, bison skull. He hangs it on its spot on the wall, and then he rummages through the boxes, muttering something indistinguishable under his breath until he emerges with the headphones.

 

Lestrade watches him in silence.

 

Sherlock places the headphones on the skull and then dives back into the boxes. The skull goes on the mantlepiece, books in the bookshelves, a picture of a skull on the wall by the sofa.

 

“I thought we agreed that you’d contact me when you planned to return to London,”Lestrade says, “you know, to organize your….resurrection, so to speak.»

 

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand at Lestrade as he shoves more books back to their place.

 

“I had to adjust my schedule.»

 

Lestrade quirks a brow. This is probably as close as he’ll get to Sherlock to admitting that he’s made a miscalculation.

 

“Why? What happened?»

 

“Simon Whitewell was murdered,”Sherlock replies.

 

“Well, I thought….”Lestrade’s train of thoughts seems to leave the station with Lestrade still remaining on it.

 

Hadn't he just been wondering if that had, somehow, been Sherlock’s plan?

 

Sherlock watches him, obviously waiting for Lestrade to connect the dots.

 

Lestrade clears his throat, not really ready to voice his theory, not for the for the first time hoping for Sherlock to fill in the blanks. That Lestrade’s theory is not only wrong, but also stupid.

 

Sherlock says nothing.

 

Lestrade sighs, feeling helpless and ridiculous as he fishes up a copy of the prison transfer report and thrusts it at Sherlock. Sherlock takes it carefully, his eyes narrowing as he reads.

 

“Oh, this is interesting.»

 

He walks towards the window, turns and then back again to the kitchen. Then he repeats the path. Window. Kitchen. Window. Kitchen.

 

“Hmm,”Sherlock hums in a tone Lestrade doesn't quite know how to interpret. Christ, what he’d give for John here to be translate Sherlockian to the lay folk.

 

“Well!”Lestrade explodes, gesturing to the signature, “isn’t that your typical forgery of my name? I’ve seen them often enough on credit card receipts.»

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,”Sherlock snaps, “this is a forgery of a forgery. A very clever one at that.»

 

“What? So you didn’t-”

 

Sherlock shakes his head, a final, dismissive gesture at Lestrade before he walks back to the window. He stands there for a while, hands clasped at the small of his back, his gaze locked on something far away.

 

“So, Sherlock, what does it mean-”

 

“Shut up,”Sherlock snaps, “go into the kitchen, make tea or something. I can’t think with you in the room.»

 

Lestrade sighs, it was really the only response he feels he has the energy for. He combs a hand through his hair and walks over to the kitchen, praying for the possibility of tea or coffee. The kitchen is empty, and despite the grim and dust coating the counter, it’s the tidiest he’s ever seen it. He opens a couple of cupboards until he locates a mug and a kettle and a box of what he hopes is tea.

 

“Where is John?»

 

Lestrade freezes, water spills over the kettle and splashes on the sleeve of his shirt. Sherlock’s standing in the doorway, his eyes leveling with Lestrade’s. Searching.

 

"Christ," Lestrade mutters, turning off the tap and shaking water off his hands.

 

He’s been wondering when Sherlock was going to raise the question of John’s whereabouts.

 

In fact, he was thought Sherlock would know.

 

“Well,”Lestrade starts carefully, “he moved.”

 

Sherlock actually rolls his eyes this time, “even an idiot can see that. Why did he move? There wasn’t any reason for him to move.»

 

“I…no?”Lestrade ventures.

 

“I bought the flat for him, so he’d stay right here,”Sherlock folds his arms over his chest, turns away in a huff.

 

Bloody hell.

 

“Well, Sherlock, John…you died and…well, he moved on,”Lestrade stumbles over his words. Despite the millions of things that Sherlock knows about tobacco ashes, the bacteria content in various puddles in London and blood splatter patterns, fundamental human behavior still stumps him.

 

“It’s what people do when somebody they…when somebody they care about dies, Sherlock. They move on, they get on with their life. You…you thought John would stay here, in this…”he wants to say tomb, “with all these memories.»

 

“John’s sentimental,”Sherlock says, almost dismissingly, “all data indicated that he’d remain here until I-”

 

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click.

 

“That’d he’d wait here for you to return?”Lestrade says, struggling to make sense of Sherlock’s logic.

 

A pause.

 

Sherlock averts his gaze and nods.

 

Lestrade takes a deep, calming breath, closing his eyes for a moment and then says as calmly as he can, “but you were -dead-, Sherlock, you tricked him into believing you killed yourself- that you were in fact not coming back.»

 

“We,”Sherlock cooly corrects, hunching his shoulders defensivly “we tricked him.»

 

Lestrade balls his hand into a fist to hide their tremor. This particular discomfort was very familiar. He had accepted Sherlock’s task and even if Sherlock was back, the guilt of tricking John, of hearing of how he fell apart and knowing that just one word would align his world again- will always be with him.

 

“Right,”Lestrade says, “we tricked him. People don’t wait around for dead friends to return.»

 

Sherlock opens his mouth, but seems to change his mind. He turns stares at the fridge. Lestrade follows his gaze, wondering why he hadn't seen it before. A small magnet is holding a piece of paper to the fridge, he recognizes the logo from St. Bart’s hospital.

 

“What’s that?»

 

“Nothing,”Sherlock hisses, snatching the envelope away before Lestrade can even think about reading it.

 

“Look, this is….going to be a mess, one way or another, but really we-”

 

“I want to see the bodies.»

 

Lestrade blinks, “what about John-”

 

“We have a vicious murderer to catch,”Sherlock says and is already heading towards the exit.

 

This, at least, Lestrade recognizes, even if he really thinks they need to address the subject of John.

 

Lestrade hurries after him, slamming the door shut and praying that they don’t run into Mrs. Hudson on the way out.

 

 

 

In the end though, there is something much, much worse waiting for them outside.

 

A vicious glare of a blitz, a microphone stuffed into his face, and Lestrade comes face-to-face with what must be the entire BBC crew standing on their doorstep. There are vans parked on the opposite street and the cameras are rolling.

 

Sherlock remains stone still on the doorstep, blinking owlishly at the cameras.

 

“Sherlock Holmes! Back from the dead, is this another-”

 

“Mr. Holmes, is this some game you are-

 

“-Are you responsible for the-”

 

“We are live at 221B where the famous consulting detective have-”

 

“Rumors are that you are responsible for the financial crisis that-”

 

The questions thunder over them, and by the time Lestrade realizes what is actually going on, the news must be on all the televisions in Britain.

 

He grabs Sherlock’s arm and drags him through the throng of people, carefully nudging microphones and cameras out of his way.

 

A cab appears, as it always seems to do when Sherlock is in need of one, and Lestrade stuffs the stunned detective into the back seat before he collapses next to him.

 

“To New Scotland Yard,”he tells the cabbie. The car pulls slowly into the traffic, reporters and cameras still shouting their questions at them.

 

For a moment, the only sound in the cab is the uneven, ragged breath from Sherlock. Then he seems to collect himself. He straightens his posture, steeples his fingers.

 

“There were plans to handle this properly. Plans you dictated, may I add,”Lestrade mutters, “ and now it’s outta our hands and all over the news. Shit. I hope you at least told John that you are alive and that he doesn’t have to find out from the telly.»

 

Sherlock’s expression tells him everything.

 

“Jesus bloody Christ.»


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beated by the lovely CowMow, without you this chapter would probably not have been written for weeks and weeks, thank you!
> 
> As always, my most sincere gratitude to all of you who give me kudos or who shares your thoughts with me.

 

 

“Working late again, doctor Wilson?” she says by manner of greeting as he walks into the common room.

 

“Just for another couple of hours, I’m doing a consultation for Doctor McDonald.” He rubs his hands, trying to coax some warmth into his stiff fingers.

 

“You work too much,” she chastises, “we’re only paying you for part time.”

 

Mrs. Gillespie is in her mid-seventies, and dresses straight from a Marks and Spencer catalogue. Her grey hair is held together at the nape of her neck by an elegant amber clip and her glasses hang on a string of pearls around her neck. She looks like she belongs on a high-end street of London, not in this ancient stone building in the freezing Highlands. She was the first person he met when he started his job at the Legion. She knows all the veterans by their first name, had shown him around their small, sparse facilities, introduced him to the locals and somehow decided to be his secretary.

 

Mrs. Gillespie turns the kettle on and pulls out a box of Walkers from the cupboard. She pauses for a moment, and he sees the slope of her back tense. She pulls out a cup, studies it and with great difficulty places it back.

 

She hides the loss of both her sons in Afghanistan in cups of teas and plates of biscuits.

 

He finds his voice, breaks the sudden silence. ”There’s nothing to do at home, might as well make myself useful here.”

 

Mrs. Gillespie pats his arm. “I understand, Doctor.”

 

Everyone at the Legion would understand. He has surrounded himself with people who are familiar with the pain of loss of a loved one, people who recognize the signs of a sleepless nights but who know better than to comment, who know what it is like to spend their mornings with a cooling cup of tea, listening to the clock eating away time.

 

“Just make sure you get out of here before five,” she scolds him.

 

He gives her a smile, small and brittle, and watches her shuffle over to the small office kitchenette. She pauses, a hand on her hip. He suspects osteoarthritis, but he still hasn’t managed to convince her to come into his office for a consultation.  

 

“Don’t worry,” he promises.

 

He accepts the mug that she forces into his hands, and feels the heat seep into his stiff fingers.

 

“Thanks.” He curls both hands around the mug and lifts the mug up to his face, letting the warmth waft across his skin.

 

“Is that damned heater broken again?”

 

“I’m not sure it was ever properly fixed.”

 

Mrs. Gillespie takes a seat in an old office chair and places her mug on the reception desk that serves as their lunch table. “I’ll tell Harry to take a look at it, see if he can’t persuade it to work through another winter.”

 

“Thanks.” He raises the mug to her in a mock salute. He turns and catches the tail end of a newscast on the old television.

 

“What’s going on?” He nods at the telly and Mrs. Gillespie sighs.

 

“More of those Alpha protests in London, don’t people have anything better to do than go after innocent people.” She lifts a couple of files and folders. “Now where is that remote…”

 

“Just let it be, Mrs. Gillespie, the news is better than that dreadful cooking show that Mrs. Darrows is insisting on watching.”

 

She chuckles. “That’s probably why Gwen hid the remote.”

 

He smiles and turns to the narrow corridor leading to his office.

 

An hour later, he’ll almost be wishing that Mrs. Gillespie located the remote and changed that damned channel.

 

 

His office is barely deserving of the name.

 

It’s a tiny cupboard with a slanted window so high that it’s impossible to reach without a ladder. He’s managed to cram a desk and two plastic chairs into the small room, of which one wall is completely covered with a towering shelf, stuffed with books and printouts. The old computer boots up with the soundtrack of a plane taking off the runway.

 

He places his mug on his desk and finds Lance Corporal Burrell’s file. He had fallen off hurdle in a wilderness obstacle course and broken his ankle. Usually, this would result in a couple of weeks in a cast and a swift return to active duty. But the military physician had decided to put Burrell down for an indeterminate length of medical leave and when he received this news, Lance Corporal Burrell reacted with a violent outburst and attacked a nurse. The nurse suffered some scrapes and bruises, but Burrell was given a medical discharge and sent home to his tiny village.

 

It wasn’t written anywhere on his records, but he could read between the lines. Burrell wasn’t the first Alpha to be discharged from the army for minor misdemeanour and injuries.

 

There’s a knock on the door and it opens before he’s even had a chance to answer it.

 

Lance Corporal Burrell is a short, stocky fellow, with limbs the size of tree trunks and hair so blonde it looks white. He’s in his mid-twenties and looks like he’s not had a decent night’s rest in weeks.

 

But he deduces hundreds of other little things about him as well.

 

Old mud on the soles of his boots and the hems of his trousers tells him that Burrell is a hiker. The lingering scent of alcohol on his breath, three beers with his lunch, fish and chips, heavy on the vinegar. The only hiking he’s been doing recently is to and from the pub. The front of his cardigan is stained with droplets of ketchup. Intermitted tremor in his right hand. Shirt wrinkled at the cuffs and collar, a pale band of skin on his ring finger, divorce finalized a few weeks ago. He looks at his right hand resting by his hips, fingers permanently curled, still seeking the gun he’s no longer carrying.

 

He wishes he could stop playing this observation game. It’s not like there’s anybody to prove himself to.

 

Lance Corporal Burrell strides into the room, his lips pressed into a white line. There’s a thin sheen of sweat across his brow and his eyes are glassy. Not only beer then, Wilson thinks, and he makes a small note in Burrell’s file to consult the psychiatrist.

 

“Good afternoon.” He smiles but gets only a grunt in return as Burrell collapses into the chair. “I’m Doctor Wilson. Doctor McDonald, your primary physician, thought I might be able to help you.”

 

No response. He takes a deep breath. “How are you feeling today?”

 

Burrell gives him a dismissive wave of his hand. “How do you think I feel?”

 

He gives Burrell a fleeting smile. He recognizes the warning signs of what lies beneath this particular line of conversation and tries to steer it to safer territory.

 

“The land lord’s kicking me out.”

 

“Oh?” he offers carefully. This isn’t really what he was expecting; he’s a medical doctor, not a councillor.

 

“Says he doesn't want an unpredictable alpha renting his flat.”

 

Right.

 

So that is why Doctor McDonald sent Lance Corporal Burrell to him.

 

He closes his eyes for a second and averts his gaze, locking it on the computer screen. When he finds his voice, it’s remarkably calm. “This is an obvious case of discrimination, if you wish, I could put you in touch with some of the volunteers attorneys that’d--”

 

“It doesn't matter,” Burrell scoffs, “the military’s no longer allowing alphas to serve, it’s just a matter of time before people are allowed to legally kick you out of your home for being one.”

 

“I know things are tough right now, but this will blow over.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand as if Burrell’s concerns can be summed up that easily.

 

“It’s that tosser, Lee Finkle’s doing,” Burrell snaps, “as if that damned register wasn’t enough, now we can’t even serve our country or-”

 

“Lance Corporal,” he says. This time it’s a struggle to keep his voice calm.

 

He doesn't want to think about Alexander Lee Finkle.

 

He buys himself time by pulling his glasses off his nose and cleaning them with the edge of his shirt. He feels Burrell’s eyes watching his every moment like a cat watching a prey.

 

 

Finally, he settles on, “if you are having a hard time readjusting to civilian life I recommend you join our group counselling sessions.”

 

Burrell snorts. “You think that’s going to help? To talk about it?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I broke my ankle,” he gestures to his foot, “but it’s no longer broken. This medical discharge is bullshit! I’m in top physical shape.”

 

He doesn’t doubt it. Burrell looks like he could complete the two-mile Army Run without breaking a sweat.

 

He remembers his own frustration when the military pensioned him out on medical reasons and he found himself in a council flat and expected to just get on with it. For a while, all he had was the dull pain in his leg, the scar on his shoulder and his medal in a shoebox.

 

“Have you had any luck with the job interview that the Legion set up for you?”

 

Burrell leans over the desk, sneering at him. “Do you think I want to spend my life sweeping fallen leaves in the middle of the village? Let everyone look at me waddling around and think I’m an utter failure?”

 

He tries to be subtle about it when he nudges his chair a few inches away from Burrell. He doesn't like the sudden proximity of the Alpha, the way his eyes are narrowing, looking at him as if he’s trying to place his face in amongst memories of old friends. Like he´s recognizing something.

 

“If the village is too small for you, you could consider moving to someplace with a bit more life.”

 

“Easy for you to say.” Burrell’s fingers scrape across the desk as he curls his hands into fists.

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind a warning bell starts tolling, but he’s determined not to let this Alpha chase him out of his own office- tiny though it may be.

 

If Burrell notices his discomfort, he hides it well. His breath escapes in ragged pitches. “You don’t know what it’s like having…..it’s like you’ve got this gift, yeah? You’re quick and clever, can run faster and farther, you’re assertive, you’re fearless, right? It’s what the military wants, and then suddenly you’re ruthless, aggressive, a walking time bomb ready to go off and just attack the- and then the military just washes its hands off you.”

 

A long silence follows, and it’s only ended when Burrell suddenly slams his fist against the desk.

 

“Lance Corporal Burrell,” Doctor Wilson warns, the years of his captaincy creeping into his voice.

 

“I was prepared to give my life for this country and now they want me to be content with sweeping the streets on a bullshit charge of medical discharge--” Burrell is standing now, angry flecks of red in his cheeks.

 

He rises, matching Burrell’s height and folding his arms across his chest. “Lance Corporal,” he tries with chilly politeness, “calm down and return to your seat, please.”

 

“No, you know what, I don’t think I will, this is just--” Burrell takes a step forward and he moves to block his path. There’s no way he’s letting the man leave before he’s calmed down.

 

"Get out of my way.” Burrell grabs hold of the collar of his white coat and for a moment he’s certain Burrell is going to toss him aside and he braces himself for the impact. But instead, his eyes grow small and calculating.

 

He grimaces, and tries to figure out what Burrell is thinking. He’s been fanatic about his pheromone blockers, always carrying at least two.

Could Burrell possibly have recognized him?

 

It’s improbable but not impossible, after all his face was in the rags magazines plenty of times in connection with Glen Reese’s trial and then again when Glen Reese’s decapitated head showed up on a stake a couple of feet from his former flat.

 

Burrell’s fingers tighten in his shirt and he can feel the stench of his breath against his skin, alcohol and vinegar, and something that is distinctly an aggressive alpha. He averts his face, and tries to breathe through his mouth and still the quiver of his heart, the slight shudder of-

 

-No, he’s not going to be afraid.

 

He slips his hand into his pocket, feels the small, oval shape. If he presses this button, within minutes this building will be swarmed by men in expensive black suits carrying guns. Mrs. Gillespie will probably serve them all tea, but Burrell might find himself in the backseat of a car with tinted windows and a new perspective on life.

 

His fingers slide over the smooth plastic.

 

If he presses it, his cover will be blown. There will be a new location, new name, and new job. And he really likes it here.

 

“What you got there, eh?” Anger flares, bright and dangerous in Burrell’s gaze.

 

Burrell grabs his hand and yanks it up. He doesn't wince, doesn't try to pull his arm free. He simply watches his wrist blossom purple and red.

 

“Lance Corporal Burrell, you will let me go this instance and then you will sit yourself down.”

 

He can see Burrell’s last-ditch battle for control. He knows the turmoil that’s warring inside him, the desire to assert domination over somebody who is trying to control him, the voice of logic that is warning him that he’s a heartbeat from crossing a line from which he cannot retreat.

 

Burrell blinks, shakes his head and lets go of his wrist. His entire posture deflates and he sinks into the chair, burying his face in his hands.

 

He watches him until the trembles in Burrell’s shoulders still.

 

“I guess you’re going to write me up,” Burrell says, his voice small and faint.

 

“I…” He doesn’t really know the answer to that.

 

“It’s why my wife left me, sometimes…sometimes I just get so…so mad at everything and I can’t…I don’t know what to do.”

 

He clears his throat and then moves over to the door. “We will be needing some tea, Mrs. Gillespie.”

 

“Certainly, Doctor,” she instantly replies, getting to her feet to busy herself with the kettle and the cups.

 

Burrell wipes his face with his sleeve, his eyes are red and brimming with tears.

 

A few moments later, there is a soft knock on the door, and Mrs. Gillespie comes in with a plate of biscuits and two cups of tea. “Here you are, Doctor.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Also, there’s a woman to see you.” She sounded curious, nosy almost.

 

“Oh?” He takes a sip of tea to mask the worry that flits through him. It’s probably nothing, he has female patients, and sometimes the wives of his patients will drop by to unburden their concerns.

 

But Mrs. Gillespie knows the names all of these people. She knows everyone in the village.

 

“Smart looking woman, blonde, expensive suit.”

 

There runs a chill through him that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. “I’ll… Send her in when the Lance Corporal leaves, would you?” He curls his hand into a fist and straightens his posture.

 

Shite, why is she here now? The anniversary is still a few weeks away.

 

“Certainly, doctor Wilson.” She hands Burrell a pink, silk handkerchief that looks ridiculous in his large hands. Burrell accepts it, dabs his puffy eyes and then blows his nose.

 

“You keep it, dearie,” Mrs. Gillespie says with a smile, and then trots out of the office.

 

They drink their tea in silence, while Burrell wrinkles the handkerchief between his fingers.

 

“Lance Corporal,” he places the cup carefully back on the saucer. “I understand that things look bleak now. I am familiar with the feeling, but violent outbursts like this will only make things more difficult for you.”

 

Burrell nods, his knuckles growing white.

 

“I am going to recommend you see a psychiatrist, and even if it seems like an uphill battle at the moment, you need to establish a daily routine. You need something to do, to have an outlet for all this energy you have, something to occupy your mind so that you don’t end up stewing with all these thoughts. And I know-” He raises a hand as Burrell tries to interrupt. “ I _know_ that sweeping the streets it’s not what you have in mind. But this area is known for hiking and wildlife and your records commend your field experience.” He scribbles down a name on a post-it note and hands it to Burrell.

 

“That’s sergeant Allen, he’s starting up a business that offers tourists the “army day experience” and he asked me if I could recommend anybody who’s looking for work. He’s an alpha, like you.”

 

Burrell rubs his forehead. “And you’d recommend me?” He stares at him with a tremendous amount of doubt.

 

He peers at Burrell over the tops of his glasses. “Yes, but you need to see someone, professionally, about the drinking and the anger-management issue, can you do that?”

 

He sees Burrell’s Adam´s apple work against his words, and instead he just nods.

 

“Good,” he rises, signalling the end of this conversation. Burrell does the same, shuffling his feet as he gathers his coat.

 

He stops in the doorway, a hand on the knob and his shoulders hunched. “It was doctor McDonald who recommended I come and talk to you, she said you’d…said you’d helped out a lot of alphas who’s coming out of the service.”

 

“Well.” He pulls his glasses off his nose, cleans them with the edge of his shirt. “I only wish it wasn’t necessary.”

 

Burrell gives him a solemn nod, and then he hears the soft click of the door closing behind him. There’s a faint murmur of conversation between Burrell and Mrs. Gillespie.

 

He shuts his eyes at the sound of high heels against the aluminium floor, and when he turns to greet his handler, it’s with the most insincere smile. He hates these meetings, because they can only mean one thing.

 

“Hestia,” he greets, and he wonders if her fascination with Greek mythology is a professional or personal one.

 

“Doctor Wilson.” She’s carrying a stack of folders and a frown that’s almost worried.

 

He frowns too.

This is new.

Hestia is never worried.

 

“I’m afraid there’s been an unfortunate development.”

 

His heart skips a beat.

 

“Yes?”

 

“A few days ago Simon Whitewell was killed in a rather spectacular manner. It has been decided that it might be prudent to relocate to a-”

 

“Hang on.” He raises a hand, halting her flow of words. It takes him a second to digest her words. “Simon Whitewell was killed? But he’s got… He wasn’t really involved in--”

 

“We are aware,” she says with almost cool indifference to his plight.

 

"It’s been almost three years, there’s only ever a murder at the anniversary."

 

"Which you know is a few weeks away."

 

As if he could ever forget that date.

 

Hestia purses her lips. “This is an obvious break in the pattern, which is why it is felt that a relocation is necessary."

 

"Now wait a minute.” He balls his hands into fists. “You can’t just… uproot everything and-- I mean, we knew this was coming, right? A death at every anniversary-” he pauses, as his thoughts finally catches up with him, “You said he was killed a few days ago?”

 

She nods.

 

“Then why did you decide to move now? Is there any indication that-” he doesn't quite know how to finish the sentence. What is he supposed to ask? If he’s next on the list? If Moran or Moriarty been spotted in Scotland?

 

“There’s been a startling development, you’d best…ask him yourself.”

 

Even in the confines of his tiny office in the small village of Grantown On Spey, she still won’t say his name.

 

“Right.” He wipes a hand across his face. His mind starts making a list of all the preparations he’ll need to make, of how he’s going to have to pack up the house, move to some other small village and they’ll have to start everything again.

 

He gathers his scattering thoughts. “I don’t suppose you could just tell me what this development is that requires a relocation?”

 

Her stony silence is his only answer.

 

“Nothing? What’s these files?”

 

Her fingers continue their intricate dance on her blackberry. “Information.”

 

“Right.” He takes a deep breath. “But I can’t just move, there’s-”

 

“Already taken care of.”

 

“Right.” Even as he says it, fatigue piles in on him until he feels raw with it, close to just giving up. Instead, he pushes himself out of the chair and grimaces against the familiar twinge of pain creeping along the tendons in his legs.

 

“I know he only wants to protect,” he says, wetting his lips, “but things were really going well here, I like the people I work with, I’m doing…” His voice thickens with every word and he swallows the last of the sentences away.

 

He’s doing good. He feels useful. Things are not _boring_.

 

He gathers his patients’ files, shuts down the computer, straightens a few pens and papers on the desk. Closes the curtains and gathers his few meagre personal items, stuffs them in his medical bag to keep Mrs. Gillespie from asking questions he can’t answer.

 

Hestia waits while he packs, her fingers never leaving her Blackberry.

 

He gives his office, his former office now, one last look and quietly closes the door with a finality he feels deep in his soul.

 

Hestia strides down the corridor and he braces himself for Mrs. Gillespie’s curious glances. But the reception is empty and he wonders what power on Earth managed to convince Mrs. Gillespie to abandon her post. 

 

Christ.

 

The room feels even colder now, barren and void, the only sound in the room comes from the small television.

 

Hestia is standing in the waiting room, her fingers still on her phone, her gaze locked on the television. The blank look in her eyes is studied and perfect.

 

He turns to the television, wondering what has captured her attention.

 

He frowns.

 

What is he watching?

 

It must be some old footage. Why are they showing old footage, now?

 

A hair of dark curls.

 

He has moments of awareness, only a few, but each of them cut like a knife.

 

Two figures leaving through a black door, one of them is waving at the sea of cameras and microphones. Lestrade. The other is tugging his collar up against the chill.

 

The sweep of an elegant arm.

 

Red stitching at the buttonhole.

 

Those ridiculous cheekbones.

 

He gasps, and he realises he must have been holding his breath.

 

Suddenly, a laceration of apprehension as several things falls into place at once.

 

When his leg gives away, Hestia grabs him by the arm to keep him upright and guides him away from the television.

 

His heart lurches in his chest and he swallows against the bile and the scream that clogs his throat.

 

“This way,” Hestia says, her voice suddenly soft. “Mycroft is waiting.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, as always, humbled by your support. 
> 
>  
> 
> I´ve done a *thing* now, that you may love and some may hate. If you like, please let me know and if you hate it, well, I´ll like to know as well (unless it´s all flames). 
> 
> See the endnotes for spoilers.
> 
> CowMow is the beta, and emotional support and idea-taster for this chapter.

 

**Chapter eight.**

 

“Do remember to breathe, John.”

 

“I-” he struggles to draw in enough air to speak.

 

He’s hyperventilating, John diagnoses, his chest heaving and lungs crashing in their attempt to keep up with the wild thunder of his heart.

 

John learned how to help his mother through an episode when he was seven, he´s never had to administrate it on himself. He places a hand on his stomach, just below his ribs, slides the other to his chest. He takes a deep breath through his nose, lets the air push his stomach out, his hand keeping his chest still. He lets the air seep out through his lips, feels the slight ease of the pressure against his chest. He feels calmer already. He repeats the motion, twice, four times, six before he feels calm enough to let his body relax.

 

His voice is a rough and rusted thing when he finally asks, “Where is Sam?”

 

“Samuel is quite safe, I assure you. He is at a safe house, with Mrs. Kettle.”

 

Christ. Safehouse.

 

John wishes his everyday vocabulary didn’t include words like safehouses, handlers, and assassins.

 

“Alright.”

 

“Do you wish to see him?”

 

“No…., I need a moment,” he says, but what he really needs is a lifetime of moments. How is he going to manage his world again, a life with Sherlock, a life without him and-

 

His body curves forward with exhaustion. He feels suddenly weary, in a way he hasn’t in years, not since he came home from the war.

 

"Just... Could we just drive around for a moment?"

 

“Certainly,” Mycroft says smoothly and then taps the handle of his umbrella against the glass separating the driver from the passengers. A few minutes later the car swings onto the main road. John twists away from Mycroft’s scrutiny, and watches the scenery pass him in a blur of colors. He shuts his eyes tightly.

 

John chokes on the memory of Sherlock standing on the rooftop, his arm stretched out towards him.

 

_“Look at me, John. Keep your eyes on me. Can you do that?”_

_“Sherlock-”_

_“I told you, John.”_ (

 

 

And Sherlock told him to keep his eyes locked on him, instructing John to watch him fall and he had been hopelessly unable to disobey. He could never deny Sherlock anything, even if it included being a spectator to his suicide.

 

He glances at his hands, fears for a second to see them sticky and red with Sherlock’s blood.

 

His throat burns and his chest aches with sudden certainty that Sherlock is alive, _alive_. He allows himself experience again the relief that comes with the realization.

 

Sherlock’s been alive all this time while John’s been grieving his loss, while John’s been struggling to piece his life back together and move on. Alone.

 

He wants to be--

 

_Sherlock leaning, almost casually over the edge, lets himself fall._

 

Bloody hell.

 

He should be happy, but there’s an internal storm of white noise, of every curse and prayer he’s ever shot into the void. And even as the shock of seeing Sherlock on the television is ebbing away, it is allowing the dull ache of anger to take its place.

 

His nails dig into his palms and he presses a little harder.

 

 

How many times had he wished for Lestrade or Molly to tell him it had all been some horrid mistake. He had begged, cried and cursed for it.

 

How many nights had he been robbed from sleep by the imaginary sounds of a violin, gone downstairs, opened the door to the living room only to realize time and time again that it was empty and always would remain so?

 

And now, a new question.

 

Who knew?

 

Who had Sherlock enlisted to help him trick John into believing he’s dead? Lestrade, obviously, somebody to handle the police reports. He thinks about the way Lestrade had studied him during the funeral, assessing as if he was making a list of John’s reaction to Sherlock’s funeral.

 

Christ, how it all made sense now.

 

Molly had to have known, of course. Sherlock would have needed somebody to fake the autopsy report. John had a copy of that file, had studied it whenever he had suddenly doubted the nightmare of his reality. He had read it every time he thought he saw Sherlock in the crowd at Piccadilly, when his heart kept tricking him into thinking that Sherlock was just down at the morgue, begging spare body parts off Molly and that he’d be home any second and maybe he’d crowd John against the wall and press his warm, lean body against his and maybe he’d-

 

“How long have you known he’s alive?” John doesn't look at Mycroft, fears the answer, fears knowing how many of his friends watched  John mourning a man who wasn’t really dead.

 

There’s a lingering pause, and John dares a glance at the man beside him. Mycroft’s lips are pressed into a tight, unhappy line, his eyes slightly red, looking the least composed John’s ever seen him.

 

“A few hours before the television broadcast.” He looks down at John and it’s unnerving because Mycroft’s gaze is sharp and assessing, as if he just realized that John didn’t know either.

 

Christ, as if John could ever-

 

He slumps back in the seat, pushes his glasses up on his forehead so he can rub a hand over his tired eyes.

 

How could Mycroft think, even for a second, that John was part of this deception?

 

Mycroft, as always, steers the conversation back to where he can control it. “Had I even suspected Sherlock was alive I would have instructed him to-”

 

John emits a huff of a laugh, he can’t help it. As if anybody could ever tell Sherlock to do anything.

 

“He did it to avoid having to play Moriarty’s game,” Mycroft says, “I doubt he chose to resurface.” Mycroft pauses and twists his lips in something that is probably meant to resemble a smile. “If it was to have the desired effect he would have continued the ruse until Moriarty was dead.”

 

John runs a hand over his face.

 

Bloody hell.

 

He had always thought that…. that Sherlock’s suicide was Moriarty’s end game, that Sherlock had been getting too close to Moriarty and that the madman had decided to finish it. He had raged a countless amount of wars against these thoughts, against the guilt that coiled in his stomach. If not for the Alpha’s attraction to him, for the biological imperative to protect him...

 

He could all too easily imagine that a threat against him would make Sherlock-

 

He swallows, feels his heart twisting in his chest and he tries to hold on to the last shreds of his restraint. He won’t break down, not here, not in the backseat of Mycroft’s fancy car. He can do so later when there are no witnesses to his embarrassing collapse.

 

“You’re thinking Moriarty wanted to do something as pedestrian as to kill you.”

 

John’s mind scrambles for purchase, trying not to feel offended by the casual tone in which Mycroft describes his life.

 

“Not sure if I should be offended or-”

 

Mycroft makes a “tch” sound, and not for the first time John can see the familial resemblance, that exasperated Holmeses’ expression for when they have to wait for the rest of the world to catch up.

 

John grits his teeth. “And what was it, then, that Moriarty wanted him to do?” he asks, deciding he’d take the bait.

 

Mycroft turns to John, dark eyes measuring.

 

“You are well aware of what a brilliant mind like Sherlock’s might accomplish if given the wrong…or perhaps rather _right_ kind of incentive.”

 

“What?”

 

“I doubt it was ever just a matter of your safety: Sherlock abhors being told what to do, to be controlled,” he levels his cool, grey eyes at John, “and when Sherlock was unable to maintain control of his Alpha’s instinct he was giving Moriarty a superb motivation to manipulate him.”

 

John swallows around a lump in his throat recognize dimly that it might very well be his own heart.

 

“You think Sherlock’s been lured out to ... to what what end? Kill him?”

 

Mycroft turns his eyes to his phone, tapping something out on the screen. His expression is studied and perfect, but John can´t help but think that Mycroft is hiding something. Clearly there is more to his theory than he’s willing to share.

 

Mycroft struggles to make his smile less patronizing.

 

“You were always each other’s weakest link.” Mycroft turns away, looks at something on his smartphone. “You realize this makes your situation even more precarious.”

 

John tucks his hands under his arms, allows himself a moment to process Mycroft’s words. “Yes.”

 

“If only Sherlock had chosen a less dramatic way to announce his resurrection we could have taken some pre-emptive precautions, but as it stands now-” Mycroft sighs, seemingly entire put out  by his brother’s untimely un-demise.

 

“Maybe he didn’t choose it,” John points out, even though he knows Mycroft has already entertained that line of reasoning.

 

“Oh, you know well that my dear brother can be ever so dramatic. He probably had some grand scheme in mind, showing up in your living room, or during tea with Mrs. Hudson, not realising you’re no longer a resident of Baker Street.”

 

John closes his eyes for a second.

 

When he had been in Baker Street only a few weeks ago, he had really thought it was Sherlock walking up those stairs and not DI Lestrade. Part of him had wanted to stay and catch up with the police inspector, but his handler’s voice in his ear had told him that under no circumstance was he to linger unnecessarily in the flat. Glen Reese’s head had, after all, been impaled only a few steps from his front door and Jane Hill was shot a few blocks away. Clearly Moriarty’s men were still watching him.

 

“These murders,” John shrugs his shoulders, “I don’t see how they fit. If they meant to lure out Sherlock, they must have known he wasn’t really dead, and then what was the point of it?”

 

Mycroft gives him a look like John’s a dog that’s just performed an especially clever trick. God, how he hates that look.

 

“It is possible,” Mycroft concedes, “that Moriarty wasn’t fully convinced and was trying to make either of you do something foolish.”

 

“Are we no longer safe here?”  There’s pain in his palms when he curls his hands into fists by his sides. He likes it here in the Highlands, it’s a small town, but the people are friendly and he’s doing something useful.

 

Mycroft’s eyes flicker to John and then slowly drags his gaze back down to his mobile.

 

“I had assumed you would prefer to go to London.”

 

“You just said that’d be dangerous.”

 

“That has never stopped you before.”

 

He’s right, of course, because Mycroft is always right. Rushing off on the first plane to London is what John wants to do, to see Sherlock with his own eyes, to smell him, to feel the heat from him, wrap his fingers around his wrist and feel his pulse beat against John’s, to let all his senses register that he is alive. Assure himself of his wholeness.

 

But he’s got other priorities now, other people who are counting on him.

 

“There are things he should know,” John says, and Mycroft doesn't even look up from his phone when he agrees.

 

“Yes, there are.”

 

John unclenches his hands and tucks them into his lap.

 

There are so many things John wants to say to Sherlock, he doesn't really know where to start. Anger at the deception, the pain of his loss, a pain that was so very real, even if the reason for it was not. The despair that Sherlock did not trust him enough to include him in his schemes. All the things that Sherlock’s missed these past years.

 

“You need not decide now,” Mycroft says, uncharacteristically tenderly.

 

John nods. Closes his eyes and tries to fend off the headache he knows is coming in the wake of the confrontation of all these thoughts and emotions he’s been carrying for Sherlock.

 

“Just take me home,” he says, because Mycroft will know that to John, home is no longer a flat in London, a house in South England or a cottage in Scotland. Home means people.

 

He must have fallen asleep because he’s jostled awake by the driver, a tall, man in a dark suit and horn-rimmed glasses which make him look twice his age.

 

“We’re here, doctor Wilson,” the man says as he pulls away.

 

John opens his eyes, and rubs sleep and grit away with the back of his hands. He blinks the world into clarity and crawls out of the car. It’s almost dark outside; the kind of deep, dark, blue you get in the Highlands. He stretches, every joint aching as they pop into place.

 

Surrounding him are the dark bows of the moors, trees, stretches of grass and somewhere to his right the steady stream of a river. Up ahead is a stone cottage, like a larger version of the grey buildings which can found all around Scotland.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“This is Dales Cottage, what you’re hearing is the River Findhorn,” the driver says. He’s lifting two gray bags from the boot of the car. John wonders if somebody actually went and packed his clothes or if Mycroft just bought everything like he’d done the first time.

 

“Another Holmes family home?”

 

The driver shrugs.

 

John takes a last moment to gather his thoughts, lets them disappear with a final exhale. He doesn't want to bring all his anxiety inside to Sam, he’ll pick up on it all too easily and he’s had enough disruptions for a day. Christ, enough for a lifetime.

 

The manor is a two-story structure with cool stone tiles, white walls and paintings of hunting and fishing scenes.  He spots Mycroft sitting in the living room, hunched over a laptop, frowning at the screen. There’s a bodyguard standing by the doorway to the living room and he points the way to the kitchen before John’s even asked.

The kitchen is of the old fashioned type, yet equipped to be able to cater for a large household with pots and pans hanging on the walls, a large stove and a fridge that could probably contain an entire human body.

 

Sam’s sitting at the end of the table, his head a storm of untamed curls, clad in a dark jumper and light khakis. He’s had a bit of a growth spurt lately and his ankles are visible between his socks and trousers. John feels a sudden pang of guilt, for he thought that of all the things he should be able to manage it would giving his son clothes that actually fit.

 

Sam is eating something from a bowl, blueberries if the mess on his face is any indication, struggling to navigate his round fists from the bowl to his mouth without losing his food. His eyes are fixated on Mrs. Kettle who is rattling off instructions on the proper decorum of tea, even if Sam can’t hear her.

 

John allows himself a moment in the doorway and just absorbs the domesticity of the scene, and he feels so undeniably at home, even if he’s standing in a kitchen he’s never seen before.

 

Sam’s face lights up when he sees John, and he immediately stretches his chubby hand out at him. John’s heart thrills in his chest, all his unease vanishes after a toothy grin from the toddler. He closes the distance between them, eats the offered berry straight from Sam’s sticky hand, making sure to blow cool air on the wet skin. Sam giggles, while his free hand moves to the air, signing _berry_.

 

“We’re glad to see you at home, doctor,” Mrs. Kettle says.

 

“Good evening, Mrs. Kettle,” John lets a hand comb carefully through Sam’s hair, “I hope today hasn’t been too upsetting.”

 

“He’s been an absolute lamb,” Mrs. Kettle assures him. “Now have a seat and I’ll make you some tea and a sandwich.”

 

“You don’t have to-”

 

“I’m your housekeeper, dearie, of course, I do.”

 

John lets himself be navigated into the chair by Mrs. Kettle, he’s long ago realized that resistance is futile.

 

Sam’s tiny thumb clutches at his middle finger as he touches the front of his mouth.

 

 _Yes_ , John signs back _, I’m going to eat._

 

Sam twists in mirth and grabs another berry from his bowl, stuffing his entire fist into his mouth.

 

After swallowing his food, Sam taps two of his fingers against each side of his mouth and brings both his opens palms forward.

 

 _You got a gift_ , John signs. _What did he give you?_

 

Sam’s tucks his thumb in-between his fingers and shakes his fists.

 

 _A toy_ , John replies, mirroring his movements. _What kind of toy was it_?

 

Sam scrunches his nose in thought, licking blueberry from his fingers before swooping his hand down from his nose.

 

 _An elephant?_ John asks and Sam nods with enthusiasm, spreading both his arms.

 

 _A big elephant_ , John amends with a fond smile.

 

“He’s always buying the child toys,” Mrs. Kettle chides good naturally as she places a steaming cup and a plate of chicken and rice in front of him. For the first time, John realizes that he’s absolutely famished.

 

Sam pinches two of his fingers together in a perfect mimicry of an okay symbol, shaking his chubby hand and pointing at John’s cup.

 

 _Tea_ , John confirms and thinks that it might be a testament to how much of the beverage he consumes that it was actually the first sign Sam learned.

 

Sam seems content with this confirmation and returns his attention to his bowl of berries only glancing up to point at things, moving his hands through sometimes complicated signs and preening under John’s confirmation when he got them right. His vocabulary is expanding daily, and John thinks that he’s not too far away from stringing them together to more than three-word sentences.

 

The dinner is lovely, as it always is, and when John is finished, Sam raises his arm and John lifts him out of the high chair. Sam wraps his arms around his neck and buries his face against his shoulder and John holds him, presses him close, for a moment, allows himself to breathe in his warmth.

 

With Sam tucked against him, he navigates the manor, passes through long corridors and up an elegant staircase that leads him to a row of bedrooms. In one there is, indeed a large elephant puzzle. Sam pulls away from John, and he quickly moves a hand to his back to support him. Sam squeezes his tiny hands into a fist, pinky-finger and thumb extended as he shakes his hands.

 

 _Alright_ , John smiles. _We’ll play_ , he signs, using his one free hand. _But not for too long, it’s way past your bed time already._

 

He doesn't need any language to translate the look that crosses Sam’s face at the sight of those last words. _Boring_.

 

It’s an impressive puzzle and though the box says it’s for kids aged ten and upwards, Sam sets about it with gusto, sorting all the different pieces into piles of blue, green, grey, corners and smooth lines. Sometimes John thinks his son likes sorting his toys more than he likes to play with them, remembering all the times Sam’s lined up his blocks and cars in an even line.

 

Afterward he gives him a bath, because Sam has blueberry smeared over his ear, in his hair and somehow, even on his toes, and he knows the warm bath will make him sleepy.

 

He carefully scoops hands full of water over Sam’s head, watches as the curls flatten and grow even darker. Sam keeps chatting by pointing at all the things in their bathroom and looking at John for an explanation on how they are signed. By the end of the bath, he’s able to lift his hand to the side of his head, fingers spread and point out all the yellow things in the room.

 

Despite his genetic inheritance, Sam does actually sleep the usual amount for a two-year-old, even if he’s fighting it at every step towards the bedroom. In his room, John instantly spies the ragged remains of a stuffed dog that he bought at the hospital the day he was admitted because he was hopelessly unprepared for the task of fatherhood.

 

John tucks him into bed, smoothing away a wisp of hair that’s curling into his eyelashes. Sam watches him, eyes small and drowsy, the cupid bow of his mouth set in an expression that John doesn’t really know how to interpret. He sits on the edge of the bed, long after Sam’s breath evens out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***spoilers****
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> I know nothing about raising children, nor do I know anybody who is deaf. I do most of my research from various blogs and diaries, but if I am misrepresenting anything, please let me know. If you have thoughts and ideas you´d like to see/share, feel free to drop them in my comment felt or on tumblr (friolerofiction).
> 
> I´ve been using this site for the language: http://www.british-sign.co.uk/
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> And also these sites for general information:
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> http://www.ndcs.org.uk/  
> http://www.bda.org.uk/  
> http://www.whattoexpect.com/grooming/toddler-ear-info/hearing-loss-in-toddlers.aspx


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All accolades goes to my beta CowMow for this quick update, my beta is an absolute brick (which I have been told is a genuine British expression).
> 
> As always, thanks to all you wonderful readers who have given me your kudos, thoughts and feelings on this story. Reading them is always the highlight of my day, so please keep them coming.

**Warning: This chapter is full of feels.**  

 

**Chapter nine.**

 

John awakes to the sensation of an unexpected presence in his room. He lies completely still, allows himself a couple of heartbeats before he opens his eyes and finds Sam’s tiny shape standing in the doorway. His dark, Sherlockian curls from a wild halo around his head. When he sees that John is awake, he hurdles himself across the room and onto the bed. He grabs hold of John’s pyjama-clad arm and tugs while his right hand, middle finger extended, swipes from his waist to his face. _Up_!

 

John groggily wipes sleep from his eyes, fumbles for his mobile while Sam tries to remove the duvet from his feet. He swipes the phone awake and with a stifled groan realizes that it’s barely past five a.m.

 

 _It is too early_ , John signs, but Sam is undeterred, giggling and tugging at the duvet. Finally, John finds his iPad and hands it over to his son, knowing he’s just bought himself another forty minutes. If he’s lucky. He lets his head fall back onto he pillow and feels the warmth from Sam’s body against his arm as the toddler settles down in bed next to him, babbling happily and moving his tiny fingers rapidly across the screen.

 

 

John closes his eyes, lets his breath even out and his body sink into bed. He thinks he might actually sleep for a bit longer, but then the back of his eyelids starts showing a repeat of Sherlock’s body falling off the top of the building.

 

Over and over again.

 

He is alive, John thinks fiercely, you saw him on the television, Mycroft confirmed it.

 

He wishes that the news of Sherlock’s resurrection hadn’t brought the harsh memories of his death with it. How long would it take for his nightmares to deplete this time? Sam was getting increasingly adept at climbing out of his cot and opening doors. If the violent memories return, John will have to start locking his.

 

Just before six am , Sam loses interested in the game. John allows himself to be dragged out of bed, stuffing his bare feet into a pair of slippers and tying a dress robe around his waist.

 

 _Not much of a sleeper, are you?_ , John signs and runs a hand through his son’s curls.

 

Sam frowns at him and signs, _It is morning._

 

 _Only technically, it wouldn’t hurt to sleep in past five AM now and again_ , John responds to which Sam uses his most favourite sign.

 

 _Boring_.

 

John’s lips twitches in an almost smile. Sam seems to have done all of his required sleeping during his first six months. There had been days when John had scoured the Internet and medical textbooks to see if it was usual for babies to sleep as much as Sam did. He had even asked Mycroft if he remembered what Sherlock had been at that age. Mycroft’s response had been a lofty tale of a Sherlock who had hardly slept at all until he was three years old and who almost drove his parents to madness. It had not been reassuring.

 

And then, when Sam was around eight months old, a switch was flipped and he went from sleeping all the time, to hardly sleeping at all. Suddenly his mind is too occupied with exploring the world and dismantling its mysteries to sleep.

 

They make their way through the quiet house with its closed doors. Sam has one arm hooked tightly around John’s neck, while his other hand goes through the motion of the finger alphabet, spelling _John_ , _Sam_ , _Kettle_ and _Mycroft_ over and over, as if he’s practicing.

 

As they near the kitchen, the door to the living room slides open. John feels Sam’s body going tense, the arm around his neck tightening. A tall man clad in a dark suit steps through the door, carrying an envelope. He nods to the two of them before he continues down the corridor. Sam peers into the living room and doesn’t relax until he sees Mycroft. The older Holmes is immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit and tie. It shouldn’t be possible to look like you’re ready for a state dinner before seven a.m.

 

 _Good morning_ , Mycroft signs fluidly when he sees them.

 

Sam returns the gesture, moving his tiny hand across the chest.

 

John is proficient enough in sign language to know that Mycroft excels at it. John has spent hours in front of YouTube videos, with books, DVDs and with the tutor Mycroft had hired, and he still lacked the flourish and nuances Mycroft had mastered. Sometimes John suspects that Mycroft just took an afternoon off to learn sign language. Children, John learned, benefitted from learning sign language from when they were six months old when their motor skills were advanced enough to form more complex motions with their hands. John has no doubt that Sam would stay well above any development curve, and he worried that he would not be able to keep up with him and that one day Sam would think he was dull. At least there’d always be Mycroft to talk to. And Sherlock, his heart adds with a dull ache.

 

“Good morning, Mycroft,” John offers.

 

Mycroft gives him a brief nod. “The housekeeper is still sleeping, but there is breakfast in the kitchen,” Mycroft tells John, signing the sentence to Sam who watches his hand with rapt interest.

 

How Mycroft found a housekeeper-come-nanny who knew how to prepare tea to perfection _and_ who knows sign language is a mystery John really doesn’t want to solve. Mrs. Kettle just appeared on his doorstep one day, looking like she’d just stepped off the set of Mary Poppins and with Mycroft’s contract in her hands. She’d taken one look at John, before pulling a wailing Sam out of his arms and ordering John to take his first shower in days. She’d been an absolute miracle ever since.

 

 _Kettle_ , Sam forms his right hand to simulate a kettle, _Sleeping_.

 

 _Quite right, and we’d best be quiet as to not wake her up just yet,_ Mycroft confirms and Sam’s lips settles into a knowing smile, looking immeasurably pleased to have figured something out. It makes the similarities between Sam and Sherlock so stark, John feels something seize tightly in his chest.

 

Sam looks up at John, moving his hands quickly up and down, thumb and pinky extended.

 

 _Milk,_ John tells Sam _and some toast, I think._

 

Sam nods, and then waves goodbye to Mycroft as the two of them make their way to the kitchen.

 

The kitchen is cold and quiet, and John brews himself a cup of tea to get some warmth back into his fingers. The first rays of the grey, Scottish sun are slanting through the window. The moors are still dark and the skies are heavy with the promise of rain. It will be winter soon. John wonders what kind of Christmas they’ll have this year.

 

Is Sherlock going to spend it with them?

 

He had never shown anything but distaste for any sort of holiday, calling it opium for the crowds. In fact, the only day where he’d not loudly lamented the foolish sentimentality of national holidays was Poppy Day. During that day, he just made himself scarce and John wondered if that had been for his benefit.

 

Sam is dipping his toast with jam into his glass of milk, making a spectacular mess and keeping up a running commentary with his hands about _toast_ , _jam_ , _eat_ , _food_ , and _milk_ , eagerly spelling the words out.

 

What if Sherlock has no interest in children?

 

His unhelpful memory conjures up the image of Sherlock.

 

“ _Caring,” Sherlock spits out as if it’s a great insult, “is not an advantage.”_

 

John swallows a piece of toast around a lump in his throat, realizing that it might very well be his heart trying to claw its way out.

 

He’s not sure how he’s going to handle it if Sherlock chooses not to be interested in Sam.

 

John’s distracted by his dark thoughts when Sam decides to experiment with the laws of gravity by using his glass of milk. He is instantly displeased with the result when John pries him out of the chair, milk dripping onto the floor. Sam whines and stuffs his sticky fingers into John’s hair.

 

 _A shower, I think,_ John declares, _then we’ll get dressed and go outside_.

 

John finds his black peacoat on a peg in the hall, hanging there as if it belonged, next to Sam’s green duffle coat, winter boots, woolly hat and matching red scarf. Sam is mostly able to dress himself and only requires help with the zipper and agreeing on which foot goes into which boot.

 

One of Mycroft’s men, a tall one dressed in a pinstriped suit and shoes that are definitely unsuitable for the Highlands, follows them outside.  He stands rigidly by the door and tells John not to go beyond the courtyard. John tries hard not to think of him as a bodyguard.

 

Even with the entire Highlands as his options, Sam is happiest when he can wander around and prod at things with a stick. John follows him closely, signing _leaf_ , _stone_ , _grass_ , _sky_ , _puddle_ , _acorn_ , _river_ , _car_.

 

Sam’s keen eyes watch his every movement, mirroring John’s gesture. He looks so intent that John can’t help but draw parallels to Sherlock working on something fiendishly clever. He knows a child will always take after the Alpha because the biological imperative is to continue the genetic inheritance of the Alpha.

 

Sam is scratching the stick into the damp soil, carving out crooked lines, one hand singing a few sloppy gestures while he babbles on in an impossible language.

 

 _Let’s play a game,_ John suggests, forcing his trail of thoughts onto a more pleasant path.

 

Play, Sam signs excitedly, dropping the stick and rushing over to John. John looks around the barren courtyard for anything that might resemble a toy, wrecking his brain for improvisations.

 

Just as he is about to suggest an impromptu hide-and-seek, the front door opens and Mycroft appears with a pink plastic ball tucked under his arm. The image is so absurd that John desperately wishes he had the guts to use his phone to capture the moment.

 

Sam totters over to stand before Mycroft, an expectant smile dimpling his red cheeks. Mycroft looks unimpressed and his expression remains stoic, even when Sam tilts his head and, cupping his hands and bringing them together, fingertips against fingertips, asks for the ball.

 

 _How about you play with this ball for a moment and let the grownups enjoy a cup of tea?_ he asks, slow and deliberate.

 

Sam seems to consider this proposition with the seriousness one would apply to tax reforms, before he replies. _Yes, Sam play with ball_.

 

He trots off, ball in his hands and a look of sheer determination on his face.

 

John shuffles over to Mycroft. “You said there’d be tea-” he starts, only to be interrupted by Mrs. Kettle appearing in the doorway with a steaming cup.

 

“Here you are, doctor. My what a lovely morning,” she says with a cheery voice, “Enjoy your tea, you can use a little warmth out here.”

 

John wraps his fingers around the cup, lets the heat from it seep into his stiff fingers and tries very hard not to think about how yesterday it was Mrs. Gillespie who served him his morning tea. He wonders what sort of story was cooked up to explain his absence.

 

“I am going to return to London today,” Mycroft announces. There’s a certain weight behind his words.

 

London, John thinks, but he knows what Mycroft is really saying: he’s going to see Sherlock today.

 

Suddenly his tongue feels like it’s made of cotton and his stomach heaves unpleasantly. He should be a titter with excitement at the prospect of seeing Sherlock again, but he can’t escape that old memory of Sherlock, can’t escape that nagging voice in the back of his mind. What if Sherlock blames it all on hormones and a biological drive outside his control?  That John's affection was nothing more than a chemical defect, the foolish Omega mind striving for the companionship of an Alpha? An instinct almost completely eradicated from the human gene pool, if not for aberrant like him?

 

 

What if he dismisses it?

 

What if he only wants to see John so that John can fetch the laptop from the coffee table and-

 

Or worse.

 

What if he has deleted it like he does with all trivial information?

 

And he couldn't bear it if-

 

-if….

 

“You needn’t come,” Mycroft says with unbearable nonchalance. John hopes that the ability to read the darkest, deepest corner of John’s mind is privy to Sherlock only. “You and Samuel can remain here, or any other place of your choosing.”

 

Mycroft takes a sip of his tea, watching his nephew toss the ball at the security guard by the door. The ball hits the guy’s legs and rolls into the bushes. Undeterred, Sam fishes the ball free from the undergrowth and makes another attempt at playing pass with the guard.

 

John knows Mycroft really means it when he says things like “place of your choosing.” Christ, he could ask Mycroft to send them to Canada and it’d be arranged with a single phone call.

 

He scrubs a hand over his face, banishes all the conflicting thoughts and emotions, “I need to see him,” John says.

 

An inaccurate description of his sentiments, he needs to hear him, breathe in his scent, trace every digit of Sherlock’s long and slender hands, needs to feel his pulse under his own.

 

“And you will bring Samuel?”

 

John hears the lilt of Mycroft’s voice, but he’s still not sure if it’s really a question. Mycroft had said that it could be dangerous, and while John is intimately familiar with danger, he’s not about to risk putting his son in harm’s way.

 

Still, to be parted from him-

 

Bloody hell.

 

_“Love drives people to act without reason and logic,” Sherlock had said with casual cruelty. “It makes people stupid, pathetic, and useless.”_

 

Is that what he’s doing, acting without rhyme or reason? Is he rushing headlong into a potentially risky situation and pulling Sam along with him?

 

He can’t bear the thought. He wants his family together and even if-

 

“He’d be safe in London,” John says, “you’d ensure it.”

 

“He’d be the safest child in the world,” Mycroft says, leaving room for nothing else.

 

John nods and turns to look at Sam.

 

Sam is still attempting to engage the bodyguard in play, repeatedly tossing the ball at him, sometimes hitting the tip of his well-polished shoes and sometimes the ball bounces off into the bushes. The guard watches the toddler, his face blank. Mycroft half turns so that John has a clear view of the hair thinning on the back of his head. He’s not really sure what sort of wordless exchange Mycroft and the guard have, but whatever the guy sees in Mycroft’s eyes, the next time Sam wobbles over and tosses the ball at him, the guard bends smoothly forward and rolls the toy back. Sam presses his hands together, giggling and smiling sunnily, his tiny body thrumming with delight as he runs after the ball.

 

Right now, John thinks fondly, a toddler governs the British Government.

 

“He’ll stay with you and he’ll be perfectly safe,” John says.

 

Mycroft slowly pivots back to him, a brow perfectly arched.

 

John waves his hand about, painting his frustration in the air. “We’re going.”

 

 

John does his best to prepare Sam for the journey, telling him about the car they will be taking to the airport in Inverness and how they will be going on an actual plane. However fond Sam is of motorized vehicles of all shapes and sizes, he’s deeply distrustful of the car seat and throws a wicked tantrum that lasts until they’ve reached the main road and John’s managed to scramble up a new game on the iPad.

 

The car takes them to the backside of the airport where a sleek and slender private plane is waiting. Sam stares at in wide-eyed wonder, both arms wrapped around John’s neck and the raggedy dog plushie in a death grip.

 

 _This plane is going to take us to London_ , John says, feeling rather out of his depth when Sam’s response is, _How_?

 

It’s a word he has learned recently and he uses it more or less on everything. How is the tea made? How does the cow work?

 

John tries his best to muddle through an explanation of aerodynamics in sign language though he suspects that by the end Sam’s no closer to understanding exactly how planes work. He seems content, though, pressing his face against the window and he giggles as the entire plane trembles through take off. Mrs. Kettle is clutching the armrests, her knuckles white and her lips moving in what is probably a prayer. Not for the first time, John thinks that Mycroft isn’t paying her enough.

 

By the time they land on a private terminal at Heathrow, Sam has left his finger and nose prints on all the window, smeared butter and jam on the leather seats and is jabbering happily on in that private language of his while pointing at all the people, uniforms, luggage and cars.

 

It’s well past midday before they leave the airport and Sam has exhausted himself to such a degree that he doesn’t even protest when John buckles him into the car seat. By the time they leave Heathrow, he’s fast asleep, one hand on his toy, the other on John’s sleeve.  John too feels the strain of the day, as each dwindling hour takes him closer to London.

 

To Sherlock.

 

John expects another dreary, British, manor house, but Mycroft directs them to the top floor of an apartment overlooking  Savile Road. It looks ridiculous expensive and posh, but with its white walls and scant furniture it’s airy and light in a way that the heavy wooden panelling of old British interior just isn’t.

 

A butler, and Mycroft is probably the only one except the Queen to actually have one, leads John and Sam down a corridor to two bedrooms connected by a gleaming, white bathroom with a massive tub and a faucet that John hopes isn’t made of real gold. His bedroom contains a large bed and a walk-in closet that looks absurd with his meagre suitcase tucked into a corner. Sam’s room is smaller, though it is already cluttered with toys that are still carrying the labels from Hamleys. Sam squeals with delight and hurries over to the building blocks as if he’s fearing they might do something foolish, like running away.

 

John sinks down on Sam’s bed and watches his son organize the blocks by size and colour and tries not to think about Sherlock and his ridiculous sock index.

 

Sherlock, who is somewhere here, in London.

 

Maybe only minutes away from John.

 

He takes a deep breath to stave off the first signs of a panic attack. He puts his hands in his lap, laces them together and squeezes his fingers hard until the tremor stops. Sherlock is here, is alive and well, and John needs to see him and tell him everything.

 

John sinks to the floor in front of his son and gently lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder until he has the child’s attention.

 

 _Sam_ , John signs, _I need to go out for a while, you will stay here with Mrs. Kettle and Mycroft alright?_

 

Sam’s brow curl in a frown. _Work_? he asks.

 

John shakes his head in reply. _I am just going out, for a little while, and then I will be back._

 

Sam’s clear eyes are fixed on John as he analyses this information, then he slides his tiny arms around John’s neck and presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek. _Before tea_ , he signs with a stern expression.

 

John nods, and kisses the top of his head. _I promise, as always, I’ll be back before tea._

 

Sam seems content to have dictated John’s curfew and returns to his blocks. John allows himself a moment to enjoy the sight of his son happily playing and babbling, without a care in the world. No matter what happens, John knows he’ll come home to this.

 

He passes Mycroft in the kitchen, drinking coffee and typing away on his phone while perusing his laptop. He pauses when he sees John.

 

“Samuel is well settled and you’re off to Baker Street,” Mycroft announces.

 

“Yes,” John says, folding his arms over his chest and stealing another glance down the corridor before he says to Mycroft. “Have you spoken with him?”

 

Mycroft raises his mobile phone. “He requires my assistance with the paperwork and the red tape that appears when one comes back from the dead.”

 

“Right,” John replies and wonders if he should ask if Sherlock has asked after him, or if that would make him too much of a teenage girl.

 

“He has not inquired after you, nor have I mentioned anything,” Mycroft says smoothly before returning his attention to his laptop. “He’s at Baker Street.”

 

“Right,” John repeats,.“Well, then, I’m going.”

 

The last time he’d been in Baker Street, when he had run into Lestrade, was the first time he’d been in London in almost three years. He’d gone to fetch some of Sherlock’s old books and Mycroft had ensured him that he’d not run the risk of running into Mrs. Hudson. So, when he heard the footsteps, his heart had hoped, if only for a beat, that it was Sherlock’s steps he heard.

 

He takes the tube because he needs the normality of it, he needs to be part of the afternoon crowd of commuters, to blend in, inhale the stale air of the Underground.

 

All too soon he’s standing under the dark red awning of Speedy’s, staring at the black door, and nothing has changed. Like it’s just been three hours where he’s nicked down to the pub for a pint with an old friend and he’s going to return to the flat where Sherlock will be peering into a microscope and not have noticed that John’s been gone. They’ll bicker over the state of the kitchen and end up ordering take-out that Sherlock won’t eat. The flat will be warm and the rain will be slanting against the window and maybe, just maybe, Sherlock will play the violin until John falls asleep.

 

His breath catches in his throat when he tries to gather his scattering wits, and he doesn’t know who presses his hand against the black door, pushes it open and leads him inside, staring at  Mrs. Hudson’s flat straight ahead.

 

The stairs leading up.

 

John grips the railing and fixes his gaze on the door at the top of the stairs.

 

_“The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221-B Baker Street.”_

 

The door is ajar and from within he can hear the soft shuffle of shoes across the wooden floor.

 

 

There're seventeen steps to the top, but it might as well have been a million. His heart is hammering and his leg trembles as he places it on the first step. He takes a step and then another, then he pauses to wipe his sweaty palm on his jacket.

 

He knows Sherlock is alive, he’s seen him on the television. But a part of him doesn’t want to see him, wants to delay the impossible because if it is true it means that everything, everything over the past three years-

 

John closes his eyes and tries to summon up his courage because the man who invaded Afghanistan and chased murderers across London is not going to be terrified of walking up a flight of stairs. He is terrified of having his heart broken all over again, and he knows that that will happen as soon as he pushes the door open.

 

He drags his body upwards and with each passing step his senses are assaulting him with information on Sherlock. The heady scent of his Alpha, the lingering smell of London after a rainstorm, of the winter smog curling through dark streets and acrid taste of the Thames and formaldehyde. Sherlock, of course, will already have deduced that it is John who is arriving simply be the tread of his shoes. The movement in the flat upstairs has stopped and the sound of his heartbeat is suddenly in synch with the beat from the person upstairs.

 

It’s like they’ve never been apart, as if there is this invisible tether between them and it drags him forward and suddenly he is taking the steps two at a time and he slams the door open and gasps for air like he’s a drowning man crashing through the surface of the waves.

 

Sherlock turns to look at him, and he looks.

 

He looks just the same.

 

John knows the past three years are etched in the line of his skin, the slight graying of his hair at his temple and nine pounds he’s never managed to regain. But Sherlock looks unchanged, as if the past three years didn’t happen to him. Maybe a bit paler, his hair is longer, falling into his eyes. He’s dressed in the same great cloak, collar turned up. His hair is the same cleverly styled mess of curls and his eyes piercing as he regards John. Nothing in Sherlock’s gaze has changed either and John thinks how unfair it is. How Sherlock can look at him and give him that secret smile as if they’ve just returned from solving a case down at the Met and Sherlock has beaten him back home.

 

“John,” Sherlock breathes and then he trails his eyes across all of John, summing him up. John knows Sherlock can read the past three years in his posture and that he’s trying to deduce the sleepless nights (when Sam had bronchitis and John’s medical knowledge did nothing but let him know how much he should worry), the long days last spring (when Harriet had gotten behind the wheel with a 0.3 of alcohol in her blood and had ended up in a coma for two weeks).  John wonders what theories Sherlock is constructing. Sherlock has been gone for three years and he doesn’t know what he’s missed.

 

John realizes Sherlock believes he knows John well enough to be able to predict the outcome of their reunion. He’s three steps ahead and waiting for John to catch up. Like he’s always waiting for John to catch up.

 

John sees the exact moment when Sherlock files away the new information about John to be dissected later. Like a puzzle to be mulled over and solved until one raining day while he’s drinking tea, he’ll dazzle John with his conclusions.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

But Sherlock doesn’t know this John who has spent the last three year with Sherlock’s throwing himself off the roof of St. Barts playing on repeat almost every night.

 

“You’re….alive,” he manages. He’s not even able to feel like an idiot when Sherlock rolls his eyes and cants his head. “Obviously, John.”

 

John opens his mouth, not sure of what he’s going to say, but it doesn’t matter because Sherlock fills the silence with a stream of words.

 

“It’s been marvelous, John, it’s been a lark and a joy!” Sherlock exclaims, his eyes glowing with the same delight John ever sees when Sherlock is inordinately pleased with himself. “Just, simply fascinating, I can’t tell you-” he turns to John, waiting, and then deciding to just push on with it.

 

“This triple homicide is quite unexpected. While Glen Reese and Jane Hill were an obvious, if boorish, attempt to garner my attention and lure me out, Simon Hill’s death is something else entirely. It’s something new, no, not Moriarty, there is somebody else who wants to play.”

 

He says all this in one breath while he moves about the flat, unaware that John feels every word like a stab of pain. Sherlock gathers up pieces of papers and pins them to his crime scene wall. Then he pauses by the window, hands clasped at the small of his back.

 

John suddenly realizes that Sherlock is waiting for John to ask for details, to demand that Sherlock tells him everything before John tells him how brilliant he’s been. Well done you, fooling everybody like that. Fooling even me.

 

“I saw you. Falling,” John rasps.

 

Sherlock turns to him, eyes slightly narrowed before he waves a dismissing hand in the air. “Yes, I will tell you all about that later, it was a rather brilliant ruse, worked _very_ well.”

 

John closes his eyes, stars exploding behind his eyelids. He knows that the room isn’t actually spinning, but when he opens his eyes they tell him something else entirely.

 

Sherlock frowns and closes the distance between them until he’s so close that John can see the rise and fall of his chest. Sherlock puts a hand on John’s shoulder, steadies him, the other skimming along his cheek, tipping John’s chin slightly up in a way that made John’s chest go tight. He tries not to think about Sherlock’s slender neck, the texture of his skin, the shape of his hip-bone.

 

The Alpha cradles John’s face, and John feels rooted to the spot, to this moment, and then he watches Sherlock smile, slow and deliberate, watches as breath ghosts across his skin.

 

“The game is still on, John.”

 

John puts all his strength and precision behind his fist as he throws a punch at Sherlock that sends the taller man reeling backward, clutching his nose. Christ, that _hurt_. Blood seeps from his fingers and John cannot help but be utterly satisfied by the look of surprise that crosses Sherlock’s face because the detective did not predict John’s reaction to be -this-

 

He turns around and slams the door so hard it rattles on his hinges and then he storms down the stairs. Bumping into a solid figure and there’s Lestrade, standing on the landing. He stares at John with wide eyes. “John- what is….”

 

“Out of my way, Lestrade,” John growls, pushing past the Detective Inspector and continuing his way down the stairs.

 

John hears the door upstairs being yanked open. Sherlock appears at the top of the stairs, looking down at the two of them. His face is bloodied, but John thinks he shouldn’t have stopped with the one punch.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock hesitates and he looks from John to Inspector Lestrade, clearly not certain of how to react now that his prediction has turned out to be completely inaccurate.

 

“I…,” he starts. He stops. Frowns.

 

“What is going on!?” Lestrade’s tone is demanding, and John wonders if it’s because Sherlock is bleeding or because it’s John who has obviously punched him.

 

John’s last coherent thought is, I’m not going to be late for tea.

 

He flees out the front door and slams it shut behind him. And then he strides down the steps and after two paces his strides turns into a half jog, then a run.

 

“John!” he hears Lestrade call after him, but he’s already raising his arm at an oncoming taxi. He throws himself into the passenger seat. He’s wheezing for air and he presses a hand to his chest to still the thundering of his heart.

 

The taxi driver half-turns in his seat. “You all right, mate?”

 

John gives him a dismissive wave. He’s not really capable of forming coherent sentences now. “…Drive.”

 

His phone chimes with the message from an unknown number.

 

<John. Don’t be dramatic. It is tedious. SH>

 

John stares at the message until the cab jolts to a halt at a red light. When the cab moves again, John rolls down the window and throws the phone onto the street.

 

After closing the window, John covers his aching eyes with one hand.

 

“Where to?”

“Anywhere, just…drive.”

 

The taxi driver is one of those experienced London cabbies who’s seen and heard it all. He steers out into the traffic and drives down the street.

 

After a few seconds in silence, he increases the volume of the radio and John is grateful for the music on Radio 4.

 

It fills the cab with the smoky voice of a female singer. It allows him to maintain the last shards of his dignity, since Sherlock has taken so much of it already. And while the cabbie drove aimlessly around London, John quietly weeps into his hands.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don´t hate me (or Sherlock!) things will become more clear in the next chapter which is Sherlock POV


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderous support you are giving me has spurred another early update. I fear, however, that there might be a bit of a wait until the next chapter as I am going on holiday next week. As always, I´d love to hear your thoughts and ideas. 
> 
> And to CowMow, you´re brill.

Disclaimer: Contains quotes from BBC Sherlock TEH

**Chaper ten.**

Sherlock feels John slowly pull away from him and somehow that makes the air feels colder. It is utterly illogical that John’s absence should manifest in any physical way when he’s not even gone. He’s still there, he could reach out his hand, touch him again-

 

-and then colors explode behind his eyes as John’s fist connects with his face in a vicious punch. He stumbles backwards, his hands cradling his face (the same hands that just cradled John’s face).

 

He hears the sound of John’s footsteps cross the living room, an angry stiletto. John’s not running away, (because John doesn't run away) but it’s a near thing.

 

 _No_!, something inside him howls, _John cannot be allowed to leave_.

 

He rushes to the door, yanks it open, looks down the stairway, just in time to see John pushing DI Lestrade away. They exchange a few words, Sherlock can’t hear them, but he can read the angry T of John’s back and the confusion on Lestrade’s face. Sherlock clutches the railing, forces himself to remain still until this inane Alpha instincts that scream at him to run after John and grab his arm fade. _Force him to stay. Make sure he doesn't leave_! The feeling is hot and possessive, boiling under the surface of his skin. It only fades with the sound of the door slamming shut.

 

Sherlock stalks back into the flat. He takes a few breaths to calm the whirlwind of vicious emotions. Emotions are antagonistic to clear reasoning, and he needs these feelings to go away so he can understand what went wrong so he doesn’t repeat his mistake.

 

“Christ,” Lestrade sighs as he steps into the living room. He’s carrying a slim suitcase and an expression like he just ran over next door kids’ dog. Sherlock knows he must look a mess himself with a split lip, smashed nose, his cheek vicious and red and blood trailing down his chin, down his neck, dripping, dripping.

 

“Give me your phone.” Sherlock snaps his fingers. Why is Lestrade so slow, doesn't he know how important John is?

 

“What are you-” his phone is in his hands and then in Sherlock’s before Lestrade can finish his sentence.

 

He sends a text to Mycroft, (it bothers him that he will know and he will hate him for it, later) and after a few seconds it returns with John’s phone number.

 

He constructs the message and sends it.

Glares at the phone, waiting, waiting….

 

John doesn't reply and when he tries to dial the number it goes straight to an automated message.

 

“Sherlock, are you alright, you look a little pale…”

 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says and tries to still the cacophony of white noise in his head. Jam. Mud. Tea. A hint of rain. John’s eyes, the storm in them and how it makes something inside him cringe. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

 

“Sherlock, maybe you should sit down, do I need to-”

 

So many conflicting points of data. The coat. The sensation of John’s breath against his skin. You should track him down, you can do it, you know John, you know his habits. Where does he go when he’s upset? To the pub. A walk in the park. To Piccadilly where the noise outside is stronger than the one in his head.

 

What went wrong?

 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade tries again.

 

“Be quiet,” Sherlock hisses, “go and stand in the corner.”

 

He can almost feel Lestrade’s sulk, but the detective inspector complies and shuffles off into a corner.

 

 

 

What did you observe?

 

Sherlock closes his eyes, ignores the warm, slick, feeling of blood running down his chin. It doesn't take him many steps through his memory until he conjures up the image of John.

 

He’s brought it up many times before. With the sway of a train carriage, on a cold and dreary sidewalk and endless nights in dark hotel rooms. He’s had hundreds of little conversations with him, had practiced all the things he’d tell him, stored information that John would find interesting. Like that odd little Italian restaurant in a basement along the harbor of Copenhagen,  the Musée d’Histoire de la Médecine in Paris, the museum for Semmelweis, inconspicuously tucked away along the Danube in Budapest. The sharp peaks of Arakur in Argentina, where it the jagged mountains makes the horizon looks like it’s been torn in two. Standing in Uvac Canyon and watching the night sky with its millions of white dots, like spilled milk. He’d stored all these observations, so he can revisit them there with John and see them again.

 

But John would see other things, he wouldn't experience it as a blueprint, all the layers and nuances and things. They’d sit in the restaurant and see the waitress struggling with the finances, (pale band of skin on her finger, recently divorced, beer stains on her blouse from her previous shift at a bar, shoes, soles worn uneven) and John would be impressed by Sherlock’s deductive skills, and leave the waitress a generous tip.

 

He’s always had the memory of John, perfectly memorized from the texture of his stubbles, the curve of his jaw.  He knows his idiosyncrasies, from the way he prefers his coffee, to the fact that he always laces his left shoe first.

 

But this John is different.

 

He lets the old John-shape fade into the background, remembers the John who stood in front of him, in their… well, John’s apartment now, really, even if didn´t live here after Sherlock left (and why wouldn't he, Sherlock bought it for him so he’d stay, so Sherlock could come back to him.)

 

He’s not the same anymore, a nasty little voice reminds him. You thought you could preserve him here, in Baker Street, like a closed museum to your past and with John as the caretaker. Idiot.

 

John’s thinner now, a couple of stones at least. There’s grey in his hair that wasn’t there before, tiny wisps of silver. What are the primary causes of grey hair? Vitamin B-12 deficiency, problems with the pituitary or thyroid gland. No. John’s a doctor, he’d treat any such symptoms. Stress maybe. But John is an army doctor, what sort of stress can he not handle?

 

The one where his (flatmate, friend, lover, partner, acquaintance, consulting detective that he blogs for) makes him a witness to a suicide (it was fake!)

 

He’s seen violent deaths before, a voice tells him.

 

But not yours. You left him behind with it. Only temporary. Do you not know anything about post-traumatic stress disorder? You cured his tremor, are you going to cure him of watching you fall?

 

Sherlock banishes the nagging voices. He can’t deal with theories now. He needs to draw his conclusion from the facts, from the things he observed about John.

 

His trousers were rumpled as if he has travelled a great distance in them. Mud and grass on the soles of his shoes, somewhere in the countryside, somewhere with rain and wind. Only places that fit those criteria are somewhere up north.

 

And the coat…

 

John never cares much of his appearance, there’s an entire wardrobe of ugly jumpers to support this fact. (Even if the jumpers smell of Earl Grey, Head and Shoulders shampoo, and the scintilla smell that he can’t find in his Scent Catalogue.)

 

He’s a casual dresser, doesn't care much for fashion and fine cuts. John clothes himself on what he can afford on the salary of an army pension, like a country doctor. Convenience is important to him.

 

But his black coat, delicate stitching, coarse, smooth and heavy fabric. Perfectly tailored and fitted across John’s broad shoulders, runs smoothly down the arch of his back. Upmarket label. Harrods, no- never, Savile Road.

 

It’s not something John would have bought for himself, it’s something…

 

No….

 

Mycroft?

 

What business has Mycroft in buying coats for John? Why would John need Mycroft to buy him clothes?

 

And something more, think!

 

The collar of his jumper, faint red stains clinging to the fabric touching John´s neck. Small, dark, threads. Jam. Strawberry. John’s not that much of a sloppy eater, why would he have jam on the collar of his jumper? (The nasty, beige one is his favorite after all.)

 

He hates this, hates this feeling of all the newness of John. He should have stopped John from leaving, should have asked about the stain. He should have made John stay and feed him chow mei, curry, pad thai and buckets of tea.

 

Sherlock had yearned to touch him, but the need to explain, to tell him everything had been greater because he had carried all these thoughts and words around for months and months and years and if he didn’t say them now he’d burst. Something twisting in his chest at the confusion on John's face. He thinks about the spreadsheet of John’s smiles and can’t find it there, this expression like Sherlock is holding his heart in in his hands and it hurts him.

 

“He’s upset,” Sherlock says.

 

“Never thought I’d hear you state the obvious,” Lestrade mutters and hands Sherlock an old tea-towel, “you’re getting blood on the floor.”

 

He grabs the towel, dabs it his split lip and winces. He’s never going to underestimate John’s strength again.

 

“Why is he upset? He wasn’t supposed to be upset.”

 

Lestrade navigates the sentence to the real question.

 

“You _actually_ thought he’d be happy to see you.”

 

“That’s the only logical reaction when a ….” Sherlock pauses wonders how to define them. He’s never wanted to think about these emotions John conjures in him. He doesn't want to study them, name them. (Flatmates, acquaintance, partners, friends, lovers. What if he gets them wrong, he’s done so before.) He wants John to define it for them. He’ll take anything John will give.

 

“…When somebody….comes home.»

 

Lestrade looks at Sherlock as though he’s never seen him before. “Sherlock, you were -dead- You didn’t just go off on holiday..!”

 

“An even bigger reason why John should be happy!”

 

“Hang on,” Lestrade shakes his head, “you thought, you _deduced_ ,” he adds and continues before Sherlock can protest, “that John would be ecstatic to see you alive and now you’re confused as to why he’s not?”

 

Sherlock scowls though the effect is lost in the light blue tea towel pressed against his nose.

 

Lestrade wipes a hand across his face, his shoulders slumping. Sherlock recognizes the look on his face. He’s familiar enough with it from when he’s just missed something mundane and trivial, some human reaction that John thinks is significant (and sometimes (almost always) it is).

 

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, Sherlock. Imagine how betrayed John must feel, you know how he hates to be kept out of the loop. And think about how shocked he must have been, seeing you alive again- on the telly of all things.”

 

“Where does it matter where he saw me first?”

 

Lestrade huffs out a laugh. “Maybe he’d have liked to feel that he was important enough to be told before the rest of the country.”

 

“That’s ridiculous. Of course he’s important, he’s the reason for everything,” Sherlock dips his hand into his pocket, feels the sharp shape of the card. It is illogical that it should feel so heavy.

 

“John doesn't know that,” Lestrade adds, “just give him some time to cool his heels and he’ll come around.”

 

Sherlock isn’t convinced, he lacks too much data to be able to make a confident analysis of what John may or may not do. John isn’t the only thing that has changed. Lestrade’s got himself married again, to Molly Hooper, (nothing like a massive lie to bring people together). Mrs. Hudson has actually left Baker Street to spend the winter with her sister in France. London has changed. He knows her statistics by heart, crime rates are up by a record 20% the past two years. Minor incidents, in the grand scheme of things, muggings, drug-trafficking, shoplifting, scuffles and fistfights outside bars. Alcohol-induced violence.  

London´s pulse is out of synch with his, her streets and her people are unfamiliar. The playing field has changed and for the first time, he doesn't quite know where he fits.

 

“It’s been an odd few years,” Lestrade says. Sherlock reads his hesitation in the drag of his feet across the floor as he comes to stand next to Sherlock, studying the incident wall Sherlock has taped up over the sofa.

 

“Moriarty’s network. It took me two years to dismantle it.”

 

“And you think you’ve managed it?”

 

“The information from Serbia was the last piece of the puzzle.”

 

“That’s the piece that caused the banking scandal, it came from Serbia?”

 

“Yes, the Baron Maupertius and the Netherland Sumatra Company. Quite a scheme.”

 

Lestrade does not need to know the details of the five-month- long investigation. The sleepless nights (some nights he thought he heard John preparing tea in the living room, the memory of it bleeding through his exhausted body and it had been so real he could smell the spices of Tetlys), days spent hunched in the rain, watching, waiting. Reading microfilms until he saw spots and every inch of his back ached in pain. The shamming of the bank secretary to get the documents (an amusing ruse, John would have enjoyed it). The arrest by the corrupt Serbian police who handed him over to Serbian mafia. The days spent in the tiny, dark room (John does not need to know that.)

 

“These murders then,” Lestrade says, dipping his toe in the topic before wading in, waist deep, “Glen Reese, Jane Hill, Simon Whitewell, and the two Alphas: Joseph Braithsworth and Andrew Nash, how are they connected to everything?”

 

“Clearly these are two separate yet connected murders,” Sherlock informs him. How does the Yard ever accomplish anything without him?

 

“Clearly,” Lestrade intones in a voice that demands further elaboration.

 

“Even you must have gotten somewhere with Glen Reese’s murder.”

 

Lestrade gives him the sigh of the long-suffering, which is really quite unfair because Sherlock is clearly the suffering party here, having to do everything himself. “Glen Reese was on leave from the psychiatric ward where he was serving his sentence. He was last seen boarding a train in Brighton, where he had been visiting his sick mother, headed for London. He was scheduled to check in at ten am on the same day his head was discovered in Baker Street. Toxicology and blood tests revealed no traces of anything unusual, nor was anything conclusive found on his head. No witnesses ever came forth and the rest of his remains was never discovered.”

 

Lestrade takes a deep breath. “Of course, considering the location of the head’s discovery we thought it might be some sort of… commemoration to you. I…well, that is to say, Molly and I also thought it might be related to John in some way, but at that time he’d left Baker Street months earlier without a word to anybody, not even Mrs. Hudson, and despite our best efforts, we weren't able to track him down."

 

Sherlock feels something seize in his chest. (He shuts his eyes and tries to will away the memory of John’s breath against his.) He could accept the logic behind John leaving, (sentiment works both ways) but that he would depart without informing Mrs. Hudson was….impolite, and even if this John is a new John, he was never impolite. That Lestrade couldn't find him could only mean Mycroft’s involvement (again).

 

Had Mycroft thought that John was in danger?

 

But John had disappeared long before Glen Reese was killed.

 

Sherlock only half listens to Lestrade rattle through the information on Jane Hill’s murder and only realizes that he’s finished speaking when he hears the impatient tap of Lestrade’s foot against the floor.

 

“She obviously recognized the killer and ran."

 

“What?”

 

“The killer established a rather decorative trend when he impales Glen Reese’s head outside Baker Street. It’s a clear cry for attention “look at me." However if the murderer really wanted to be caught, he would have left behind some evidence, minute probably, but not so inconspicuous that not even Scotland Yard wouldn't be able to get somewhere with it. No, he simply wanted to state that he was paying attention, but not ready to play yet.

 

“The killer planned to continue his established exhibition with Jane Hill. Display her body in some garnish way to get  attention, but Jane Hill recognizes her killer and makes a run for it. The plan had to change and Jane Hill eliminated, so he shoots her as she tries to flee. Who would Jane Hill recognize? Her only dealing with Moriarty was through the internet, but she did meet with one of his associates to collect the false identification and the uniforms,” Sherlock turns to regard the incident wall, hones his attention to the photographs of Jane Hill’s body.

 

“In her interview she never provided an accurate description of Moriarty’s associate. Average height, average build, short, light hair. She obviously lied when she said she didn’t see the person clearly as she was able to recognize him two years later on a dark street in London."

 

“She was also on leave,” Lestrade adds, “and if my signature was faked, we might assume that the authorization for her leave was also faked. The murderer wanted her out of prison on that particular day. She had a weekend pass to go to her sister’s funeral. Sarah Hill was killed in a car-crash, do you think that Sarah Hill was killed to get her sister out of prison?”

 

“Only if you do not believe in coincidences.”

 

“Christ,” Lestrade mutters and Sherlock wishes Lestrade would stop being surprised by human’s capacity for cruelty. Lestrade paces the flat and Sherlock tries not to think of John. It should be the rhythm of John’s feet that plays the soundtrack to his musings. He thinks better when John’s close. Maybe he should go out and find him. How much time does he need to “cool down”?

 

“You said that this was all about attention. Yours, I assume."

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Then, the killer realized that your suicide was a fake. Nobody tries to get the attention of a dead man."

 

“Or the killer was uncertain and was trying to tempt me to reveal myself. A delicious decapitation outside my flat with no apparent clues or witnesses. How delightful."

 

Lestrade scoffs. “Then why break the pattern with Simon Hill?"

 

“Because-” Sherlock starts, only to be rudely interrupted by Lestrade, “I mean, why did -you- break the pattern with Simon Hill. You rush back here days after he’s found murdered in, as you would say, a spectacular manner, alongside two men who, besides being Alphas, have no connection to you or John."

 

“Because something is going to happen.”

 

“What?”

 

Sherlock slips his hand into his pocket, fishes out the small, square business card and hands it over to Lestrade. Lestrade accepts it with the slight puzzled frown he gets when he’s trying to catch up with Sherlock (which is always).

 

“Olly olly oxen free?" Lestrade glances up at Sherlock, “what does that mean, where did you get it?"

 

“I received it a few weeks ago. It was sitting on a pillow in a hotel I was staying in." Sherlock steeples his fingers to stop them from jittering. He can feel the beat of his heart increase, recognizes the feeling, the first rush of adrenaline.

 

Olly olly oxen free. _The game is over_. You can come out into the open without losing, the positions in the game have changed and we´re starting a new.

 

He’s got all these theories and ideas and he can’t wait to eliminate them, go through all the layers until he comes to the kernel of truth. And then, when you think you have solved it an entire new game reveals itself.

 

He’s tired of Lestrade’s company. He wants John. He needs to tell all these things to John so they can figure out what this new game is.

 

“Alright, what does this have to do with the murders at the primary school?"

 

“I don’t know, yet, but I have some theories."

 

“What-”

 

“I have things to do.”

 

Lestrade doesn’t deserve any  more of an explanation because Lestrade is slow and dull and so utterly tiresome and not like John at all. Will this new John seek comfort in all the old places? People seldom think logically when they are upset, they let familiar routines and paths dictate their actions.

 

He takes the steps down, two at the time, pauses outside Mrs. Hudson’s door. He craves the normality of how things used to be and imagines a scheme to get her back from her holiday in France. Will she come when she sees him on the telly?

 

It has started to rain, and to make matters worse Mycroft is standing outside under a massive, black umbrella. Sherlock tries to keep his face blank, doesn't want to give his brother the benefit of being able to read him.

 

“I thought you might need this,” Mycroft says lazily and hands Sherlock a cigarette.

 

God, yes.

 

Mycroft flicks a lighter and Sherlock puts the tip of the cigarette against the flame and inhales, lets the smoke sweep around his mouth, touching every taste bud before it seeps out of his nostrils. He ignores the weight of Mycroft’s eyes on him, the way his brother is assessing his every move.

 

“Your passport and other documents,” Mycroft says and passes a paper bundle to Sherlock. He lets them disappear into his coat. Mycroft is certainly useful for such tedious affairs as paperwork.

 

“You should go to St. James’ Park tomorrow, in the Park, around eleven.”

 

Sherlock fills his lounges with smoke, lets the nicotine do its job of dulling his senses. St. James’s Park. He’s been there once, many years ago now, locating a drug dealer, the result of which inevitably led him to his first stint in rehab. Mycroft knows this, of course, as Mycroft knows everything through the CCTV of Sherlock’s life, so why he’s suggesting Sherlock seek out this old haunt?

 

“Try to be, I don’t know….”Mycroft shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Not a complete berk, this time.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock heeds Mycroft´s suggestion (for once.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the fantastic work of my beta, CowMow, you get to enjoy another chapter before I am off on holiday. CowMow, you´ve been absolute cracking and none of this would have been possible without you.
> 
> I think a lot of readers have been looking forward to this chapter and I hope it does not disappoint. As always, you continued support is what drives this story forward. Please do not hesitate to share your thoughts, suggestions and ideas with me.
> 
> Please read the chapter warning.

**Warning for possible triggers:** This chapter contains references to sexual abuse of a minor. The description is none explicit and is in reference to the murder-mystery-case and not related to any of the main characters. If you prefer to not read the segment, you should stop at the point where they are discussing the e-mail.

 

**Chapter eleven.**

 

In a thinly veiled attempt to not allow Mycroft to tell him what to do, Sherlock doesn’t go to the park until it’s almost noon. It’s one of those bright days at the end of autumn,before the days will become bleak and cold. The nice weather has drawn a large crowd of people to the wooden pavilion at the Inn The Park and waiters are hurrying to and fro. Gathered around the pond are several children, some wearing vests and caps from primary schools, some clinging onto their parents. The arrival of some many people heralds food and the ducks have lined up, gurgling and quaking along the embankment, squabbling for bits of bread.

 

Sherlock stands under the lip of a red tree, hands in his pockets and wonders why Mycroft has sent him here. He tries to wrestle with the image of John, sitting alone on a bench, tossing crumbs to ducks and pigeons. It’s a depressing and very dull image. When he sees John, he recognizes him from the ludicrous knitted jumper he’s wearing, a horrid, green monstrosity in looping Shetland pattern. His coat (the expensive one (the nice one) that Mycroft got him) is draped over his arm. He’s standing at the edge of a group of small children who are trying to toss breadcrumbs at the ducks, though their efforts don’t quite reach the water. Uncaring ducks wobble up from the water, nipping at their feet, making the children scream with a mixture of glee and alarm. John is watching the children (his catering tendencies shining through) while talking to a tall, handsome man in a pinstriped suit.

 

Sherlock frowns, and moves closer to better observe John and this stranger. Sherlock drags his gaze quickly over the man from head to toe, noticing the way the suit hugs his slender shoulders and curves gently across the slope of his back. The trousers have a press so sharp it could probably cut bread, and runs a smooth, unbroken path along the man’s long legs (athlete’s legs, jogs regularly) until the hem comes to rest at exactly the perfect height (a bespoke suit). A pair of pale brown, hand sown Derby shoes. It’s a suit that would cost a quarter of John’s army pension.

 

They are standing close enough to lend some familiarity between them, talking, though Sherlock isn’t close enough to distinguish any words. Occasionally John’s eyes would flit to the gathering of children, while the stranger’s eyes would glance at his phone. The tall man is standing at ease in a way that only soldiers do (no tan lines, he has not been oversees in several years. A slight hunch to his left shoulder suggests an old injury.) Maybe an old army mate of John’s, then, even if the man’s hairstyle cannot possible abides regulation. Sherlock goes through the mental list of John’s acquaintances, only to remember that he doesn’t know this John any more. John could have made plenty of new friends in the past few years. Sometimes John’s like a Labrador, friendly with everyone.

 

Suddenly, the stranger puts a hand on John’s shoulder and directs his attention to something happening by the pond. John smiles, bright and sincere, and suddenly Sherlock loses the ability of all coherent thought because he’s consumed with this discomfited feeling that’s making itself known in his stomach and the rush of bitter acid in his mouth. Like that time when he was experimenting with the effect of gold salts on the human body (an old Chinese method of poisoning that he had yet to come across). He recognizes the symptom as queasiness, but the sensation quickly spills over into anger. Who is this man who dares to stand so close to John, to breathe the same air as him, to lay his hand on his shoulder and to make him smile like that!?

 

The sensation continues to gnaw at him and he feels a surge of anger so deep that it steals his breath away. Sherlock clamps his mouth tightly shut, breath through his nose. He loathes how John is making him act all illogical (again!), why should not John be allowed to smile at whomever he wants? (Because he’s _mine_!). He wills himself to remain still, digs the sole of his shoes into the ground as if they can somehow anchor him to this spot and stop him from wrapping his hands around that…that _fiend’s_ throat and squeeze the life out of him. No wonder the Alphas died out. It goes against all natural reason to feel this intensely; it’s a distraction- to let your body dictate your life when it should be no more than transport

 

And then, John steps away from the man in the suit. The man’s attention lingers for a second (a second too long) on John’s form, before he starts fiddling with his phone, his gaze flitting to the restaurant, searching for somebody there. Then he strides over to the Inn, his phone pressed against his ear. The relief Sherlock feels at their separation is absurd and short-lived.

 

John emerges from the crowd of children, a toddler tucked against his hip. The child, a boy, is dressed in a green duffle coat, sleeves stained with dirt and grass. A red scarf is wrapped snugly around his neck and a knit cap is pulled on his head. He’s looking at John, his primary hand held near his mouth, fingertips touching the tip of his thumb, hand opening and closing repeatedly. John repeats the gesture, adding a few more that brings his hand to his mouth and pointing at the restaurant.

 

Sign language, Sherlock realizes. He knows nothing of the language (a gap in his knowledge that he must fill). He watches the pair, John and this child, smiling and talking and then turns his gaze to the restaurant, searching the tables for a woman sitting alone. She’ll be carrying a large purse (toddlers always requires necessities) dressed in an elegant and practical outfit (children are messy) and she’ll be scanning the crowds-

 

Where is the child’s mother?

 

In an instant the logical follow up to the question rushes at him with such a force that he thinks for a moment he’s feels the physical impact of it.

 

Is John the child’s father?

 

All at once his world’s shifts and changes, the clarity that comes with the realization is harsh and terrible. The jam stains on John’s jumper. The reason he moved out of Baker Street. He can, logically, accept that John moved away, but he cannot fathom that John would _move on._

 

Sherlock starts cataloguing all the ways things are going to change.

 

But there’s not a list long enough, because _everything_ is going to be different.

 

John’s not going to move back in. He’s living with his _family_ now, he’s going to want to do things like taking his son to the bloody duck pond and have brunch with the girlfriend- wife (John does everything so orderly). He’ll have a normal, boring, job, and do normal, ordinary things, and he’ll go and live in the countryside, because John has fond memories of his childhood and he’s nostalgic and he’ll want to share them with his family. And maybe he’ll promise to come to London, (because that is what people do) sometimes, and maybe he will, once or twice, but it will be just a promise, useless strings of words he’ll give Sherlock before he’s submerged, infused, wrapped up in this normal, ordinary life, away from the one where he spends the night chasing criminals down the street.

 

He’s not coming back and Sherlock is going to be alone. He understands this, but he doesn’t understand how this clarity can make his skin cold and clammy, make his world tilt. How could his lucidity, his keen, logical mind suddenly feel like a cruel gift? This is why caring is not an advantage, because this wretched, sharp and heavy feeling that’s settling in his chest, he’ll carry it with him, always.

 

But it’ll be fine. He wanted John to be safe and happy (but not happy with somebody else). But he’ll be all those things in his suburban home with fences and a dog and the wife will make him stop wearing ugly jumpers and he’ll stay at home in the evening with his talk shows and funny stories about this consulting detective he once knew in London.

 

Sherlock’s not sure how long he’s been standing there, staring sightlessly at the crowd of people, but suddenly he feels warm fingers encircle his wrist, jolting him out of his churning vortex of thoughts.

 

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John’s studying him and his look must say something he doesn’t intend, because John’s eyes are worried in a way Sherlock’s hasn’t seen before.

 

Quietly, Sherlock says, “I really like your jumpers, even if they are hideous.”

 

“That’s… nice?” John frowns, his fingers moving over the pulse of Sherlock’s wrist. “Breathe through your nose, Sherlock,” John instructs, his voice calm and steady. Doctor and soldier.

 

“What? Why? I’m… I’m fine.” There’s something rattling in his chest and Sherlock thinks it might actually be his own heart, even if it’s entirely illogical.

 

“I think you’re having a panic attack.”

 

“That’s preposterous,” Sherlock says, blinking away the colors dancing in a sickening whirlwind. John keeps two fingers on Sherlock’s pulse , the other sliding up his arm to cup his elbow. Sherlock remains utterly still, his body is heeding John’s advice and he inhales his scent through his nose, letting it seep out through his mouth. John’s staring at his watch, taking note of Sherlock’s pulse.

 

Another breath. John is still here.

 

 

John’s concern flits away in stages, the furrows in his brow evens out, the grip on Sherlock’s elbow lessens, his shoulders relax and his mouth curls into the familiar half-smile John uses just for Sherlock.

 

“There, now.” John steps back, letting Sherlock’s hand fall away, only a few inches from Sherlock’s fingers and Sherlock wants to reach out and grab it, but he thinks that he doesn’t have that right anymore.

 

“I suppose Mycroft told you all about it and to come here.”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies, feeling a semblance of control return although he still feels shaky. He can do this. He’s survived the torture of mercenaries, he’s gone five days without food and only puddles of rain water. This is nothing.

 

John shuffles his feet a little and drags a hand across his face, clearly having an internal monologue with himself. Probably cursing Mycroft.

 

“Well, are you going to come over and say hello or are you going to lurk among the trees?”

 

“I don’t lurk,” Sherlock protests.

 

It brings the quiver of a smile to John’s lips. “Yes you do, with your dark coat and your collar turned up and those dramatic cheekbones. Definitely lurking.”

 

Sherlock huffs, scanning the crowd at the restaurant. He doesn’t want to go over and meet John’s wife. He’ll be able to see all the terrible habits and secrets she’s hiding. He won’t be able to not notice, he won’t be able not to tell John, and John will resent him for being rude and not his wife for having flaws and-

 

\- Clearly John’s been saying something, because he’s moved further away and he’s looking at Sherlock expectantly and Sherlock, feeling like he’s been tethered to John, follows.

 

They navigate the late-lunch crowd and waiters. John leads them to a table tucked in the far end corner of the terrace. The child is there, sitting in a wooden high chair and dipping a breadstick into a bowl of yogurt. The tall man in the suit is watching the child intently, but when John arrives, he gets up from his chair and moves a few paces away, standing with his back to the table and his gaze on the crowd. The toddler gives Sherlock a sullen look and then points his breadstick at John, demanding an explanation.

 

John’s hands move, slow and deliberate while the boy watches every move.

 

Sherlock watches the exchange. He’s never studied toddlers before. They aren’t all that interesting, normally. Children don’t need deducing, they are vocal with their emotions, which they show clearly with their facial expressions, and are too young to cultivate any secrets or bad habits that they would try to hide. He’s only able to read minute things about this child’s life, such as the expensive coat and trousers (must be Mycroft, unless John’s married into money). No immediate family, Sherlock thinks, both the scarf and the hat is store-bought, so no grandparents or aunts to knit such a common item.

 

The child is thoughtfully chewing on his breadstick, yogurt dripping down his fists, intently watching John’s explanation. Sherlock stores it away so he can translate it later. It is absolutely dismal to stand here and not understand what John is saying and he fervently hopes that this isn’t what it feels like to be ordinary. At the end of John’s explanation, the child raises his tiny hands with fingers extended and palms facing each other so the fingers come together.

 

John breaths a laugh. _How? Sometimes I wish you had another favorite word._

 

The toddler doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. Sherlock narrows his eyes, wondering what the mother would be like. The child looks… surprisingly perceptive.

 

John half turns to Sherlock. For a moment he stares at the table and Sherlock wonders what he finds there, because when he looks up, he’s gone a little pale and there’s an odd quality to his voice when he speaks.

 

“Sherlock,” John says, moving his hands in what Sherlock thinks is probably a translation into sign language, “this is Samuel, or Sam, for short.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t look at Sam, too fascinated in studying the changes to John’s face, the hitch of his breath, the red tint on his neck, the flit of his eyes.

 

John grimaces under the scrutiny, seems ready to give up on what he is saying, but bravely he soldiers on. He looks straight at Sherlock, his shoulders rolled back when he says, “you are his father.”

 

Sherlock blinks like an idiot. Only after a while, Sherlock finds his voice, though, apparently not his wits. “How?”

 

And even more brilliantly, he adds, “that… wasn’t meant to happen.”

 

“Bloody hell,” John groans, his posture slumping, “do I really need to explain this particular…?” John glances away, his knuckles turning white. “What was it you called it? Oh, right. Evolutionary cul-de-sac?”

 

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but one look at John is enough for him to swallow his words down. He remembers what he’s said, he always remembers everything.

 

_“It’s an evolutionary cul-de-sac, just like the male Omega.  Have you ever heard of anything as useless? There is really no need for fertile males when there are an abundance of fertile females to carry on the species for those who are so inclined to produce progeny.”_

 

He realizes that he’s been silent for too long, because John’s pushing his chair back, like he’s going to leave. Sherlock opens his mouth but closes it. Then he tries again, fumbling for anything to say that’ll make John stay. In the end, he snatches John’s hand and feels the tremor in John’s fingers. He gently squeezes his hand, trying to convey everything that he can’t find the words for.

 

John exhales and sinks back down into his chair, his lips pressed to a thin line.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, quietly and the words feels odd, “I was just surprised.” (And happy that you aren’t married and living in the countryside and that you still have your wretched jumpers.)

 

John’s eyes grow impossibly large as if Sherlock has said something really unexpected, his fingers curling under Sherlock’s large hand, until they rest with their palm up and Sherlock can slot his fingers against his, tentative but warm.

 

Destroying the beautiful, fragile moment like only children can, Sam throws his breadstick at Sherlock, leaving a stain of yogurt on his cheek.

 

John’s shoulders curls against suppressed laughter, carefully sliding his hand free to scold his child. At least, Sherlock hopes John is scolding him.

 

_I thought we had covered basic table manners._

 

 _Why?_ Sam gargles happily, extending both his arms at John. John moves across the table to extract him from the high chair, using a napkin to wipe Sam’s face and fingers clean. Sherlock watches the carefree and easy way the two of them navigate back around the table, and feels a pang of something. Jealousy? Pride? _Longing_?

 

 _Would you like to say hello?_ John points at Sherlock, who is sitting stock still on his chair. John doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sherlock sit still for so long. It’s a little worrisome.

 

Sam makes a skeptical noise, and plasters himself against John’s neck, unwilling to look or speak to that strange man with the weird, scary eyes.

 

“He can be a little shy,” John explains, grinning a bit. He looks embarrassed, as if his child misbehaving reflects badly on him. Their child. Bloody hell.

 

Sherlock hasn’t recovered, it is possible that he never will. It’s like his brain’s a computer that has crashed and is unable to locate the necessary files to reboot. Does not compute.

 

“That’s…” He’s not sure how to end that sentence and is grateful that he doesn’t have to because his phone buzzes alive with a message. Phone. Work. He doesn’t have to talk anymore, he can do something he is good at instead.

 

Sherlock is still staring at Sam and John as he fishes it out of his pocket and it takes him two attempts (clearly he’s been rendered a moron) to unlock his phone and find Lestrade’s message.

 

“Oh!” He springs up, hastily typing out a message and he’s almost (almost) on his way out of the restaurant when he remembers John. And Sam. Because there’s the two (three) of them now.

 

“What’s going on?” John’s eyes are blue as ever, and unreadable.

 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says, willing his body not to respond to flight mode. “There’s been….there’s going to be an important announcement.”

 

“Announcement?”

 

“It’s in connection with the triple homicide, execution really, the way-”

 

“Oh,” John frowns, his hand moving up to rest against Sam’s back, “I suppose you’re off to the Yard.”

 

“I….I should stay?” He doesn’t mean it to be a question, but he doesn’t know what the right response is when your former flat mate, whom you tricked into believing was dead, has just introduced you to your son.

 

“No, that’s…it’s important,” John wets his lips, “you should go, only…could we come along?”

 

Sherlock stares. “You want to come to the Yard, with…” he stumbles over the name, new and foreign in his mouth, “Sammy?”

 

John smiles, soft and crooked, “well, why not?”

 

“It could be dangerous.”

 

“At the Scotland Yard?”

 

Sherlock agrees that John might very well have a point. He has untangled Moriarty’s strings in Scotland Yard and the place is full of police officers, who’s job is to _protect and serve._

 

“I want to help, but if you-”

 

“No,” Sherlock rushes to say before John can do something foolish, like talk himself out of coming. He moves closer to John until he feels the warmth from Sam’s body. “I need your help. You’re…. good, at this sort of thing.”

 

 

DI Lestrade meets him at the door. He’s dressed in the crisp suit he uses when he has to hold a press conference, but the dark blue colors only seem to enhance the bags under his eyes. “Sherlock, I’m…and John and where did you get that child?”

 

“Hello, Greg,” John says, shifting the weight of the boy tucked against his hips.

 

“Yes, hello, John,” Lestrade says and then grabs Sherlock by his elbow and drags him off into a corner.

 

“Whose child is that, is it John’s? Christ, you look like shit. Are you alright?”

 

“It’s ours, yes and his name is Samuel. And yes, we’re both alright. Now, you said something about an important announcement? Let’s go to your office.” Sherlock easily pries himself free from Lestrade’s grip and strides with confidence across the corridor to the DI’s office.

 

Lestrade thinks that this can’t get worse than the time Sherlock tried to nurse baby hedgehogs in 221B, and slots the rather shocking news away to be dealt with later. Sherlock Holmes fathered a kid? Bloody hell.

 

“Yes, this way,” Lestrade says hopelessly, leading John to his office.

John settles Sam down in Lestrade’s massive office with large windows. The child is holding a toy dog in a death grip while cooes and babbles with glee at all the cars and uniformed people moving below.

 

“So, right, an hour ago we got this email, telling us to watch BBC news at two-o-clock.”

 

“Email?” Sherlock demands and Lestrade raises a hand defensively.

 

“The IT department is already working on tracking its location, but they aren’t very optimistic. According to them it’s very easy to hide your IP address.”

 

Sherlock scoffs at this, because he’s never taken an interest in cybercrime and only has a passing knowledge of computer technology.

 

“Anyways,” Lestrade switches on the television where a “Please wait,” message is displayed across the screen. “It could start at any moment.”

 

John walks over, standing next to Sherlock, “and the message said it was connected to the triple murder?”

 

Lestrade nods and glances at Sherlock whose gaze flits from the television to Samuel.

 

“Do you know you got a little something-” Lestrade begins to point out, motioning at his cheek.

 

“Hush,” Sherlock hisses, “it’s starting.”

 

The screen goes black for a second, before it pans into the familiar red studio of the BBC News.

 

 

 

“He-hello.”

 

He pauses, wets his lips and tries to regain control of his words. “Most of you know me from role as ‘Martin’ from ‘Leadworth Way,’ but there are circ-circumstances in my life that you know nothing about, circumstances that have darkened my life, a darkness I cannot escape even if I should live to be a hundred.”

 

Edward Blithely knots his hands together to hide the tremors. His introduction has not gone as well as he’d had hoped. It seemed too dramatic and he’d been fumbling and searching. This unfamiliar sensation of not having control, of not having a script, lurks in the back of his mind. Despite his hesitation, he can feel that he had the attention of everyone in the room, of all the thousands, millions of people watching this live broadcast. He steals a glance to his right and sees the encouraging smile of his wife.  He raises his voice slightly and decides to just get it over with.

 

“When I was five years old my dad died. My mom remarried a short while later and I got a stepfather. He was an Alpha, strict, domineering. From when I was six-years-old to the day I went to the Home when I was sixteen, my stepfather would rape me, three, four, five times during the week. Summer and winter, weekdays and weekends, mornings and nights. Year after year. My mother said that my stepfather was just like that, that nature had constructed him in such a way, that he had served his country and it was now our duty to take care of him. The rape was such an integrated part of my childhood that for many years I thought that this was how it was supposed to be, that all the kids had it just like me. It was just another thing one didn’t talk about. I was right in thinking that it is something we just don’t talk about, but I was wrong in thinking that the sexual abuse of children is normal. It’s more widespread than we’d like to think, but it’s….it’s not normal. My stepfather wasn’t normal, Alphas aren’t normal.”

 

Edward grips the edge of his desk and forces himself to stare straight into the camera. He remembers his instructions: deliberately avoid words like “shame” and “guilt,” don’t show anger or resentment, don’t mask the message with psychology that people can use to pick you apart. Stick to the facts and let the audience fill in the emotions.

 

“When I was sixteen I tried to murder my mother, which seems like an illogical choice since I thought…since I considered my childhood to be normal. She wasn’t the root of my pain, sometimes she even tried to warn me of his approach by turning up the volume on the TV.

 

“I was sent to a home for wayward youth and my first night there I got the shit kicked out of me by a group of older kids. As I laid in my bed, bruised and aching, I was the happiest I’d ever been, because I knew I would be safe from him here.”

 

He looks down on the desk, sees all the minute wears and tears in the grain of the wood. He stares at it until dark spots dances in front of his vision and it takes all his strength to turn his gaze back to the camera.

 

“I’m not the only one who has been abused, and maybe I’m one of the lucky because I got away. My little sister…she…she was not so lucky. When I got sent to the home, she replaced me. Three years ago she put on her headphones and sat down on the railway tracks.”

 

He swallows and swallows, feels the pressure against his stomach so hard he thinks he might throw up. “I have wondered what she must have been thinking about when she sat there on the railway. Of our stepfather? Of nothing? Of the older brother who abandoned her?”

 

Edward slides his hands across the desk, pressing his palms against the hard surface to keep himself rooted to the spot.

 

“The day of my sister’s funeral I made a vow that I’d spent my  life and my fortune exposing the Alphas that think they can hide away in our society and blame their heinous crimes on some biological necessity. There’s a list on my webpage, with their names, addresses and an account of their crimes. You can go to my page and read the stories and then tell me what Britain’s biggest problem is? Is it economical decline, our skyrocketing unemployment rate, or is the Alphas responsible for hundreds of children who are going to bed, terrified because their fathers or uncles or brothers may open their doors and hurt them?”

 

He keeps his eyes locked on the camera until the light changes color, signaling the end of his segment and the return to the regular program. For a while the studio is utterly still and nobody dares to break the silence. Then the crew lets out the collective breath they’ve been holding since Edward entered the studio. Slowly they wheel away the cameras and the television screen is showing the news anchor again. But nobody is going to be able to focus on the newscaster who is stuttering her way through the prompts, trying to regain a semblance of normalcy. 

 

Edward fishes out his smartphone and with a few flicks of his thumb brings up the statistics for his webpage. The view count has reached over a thousand hits, and is steadily climbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavily inspired by Lotte og Søren Hammer "Udyr"


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter will make an enjoyable start on your weekend. It´ll be a bit of a wait until the next one, as my beta is off on holiday, so here is a long chapter to tide you over.
> 
> Warning for feeling, fluff, domesticity and, yeah, some crime scene stuff.
> 
> Thanks for all your kind words and kudos of support. I love hearing from you all, so please don´t hesitate to share with me your thoughts and feelings on this story.
> 
> As always, thanks to CowMow for being my beta and soundboard. You´ve been an absolute duck.

**Warning: for a detailed description of a crime scene and death by suffocation. Please see previous chapters for additonal warnings.**

 

 

**Chapter twelve**

 

“Are you telling me you can’t kill that website?”

 

Yu Kosaki has worked for the Metropolitan Police Cyber Crime Unit for a little over two years and until now her job has never required her to leave the safety of her desk. Today she finds herself in DI Lestrade’s office, palms pressed together and fighting the urge to cast her gaze to the floor.

 

“I _can_ shut the site down,” Yu says, “but it won’t do any good because the message has been spread to thousands, if not millions of other websites already. There’s even a hashtag, #WeHateA. The information is spreading like wildfire, sir.”

 

“Christ,” Lestrade mutters, “I guess there’s nothing we can do about it then. Can you at least get me the information that’s on that bloody webpage?”

 

“I emailed it to you,” Yu casts a glance to Lestrade’s desk where _the_ Sherlock Holmes sits, staring intently at the computer screen.

 

Yu’s career has never directly involved the world’s only consulting detective, but she’s heard the stories, of course. Everybody has. The brilliant deductions. The ridicule of Scotland Yard. His total disregard for propriety. The latest tales involved theories on how he managed to fake his death, and while there were a lot of rumors, grand conspiracies and an entire subcategory involving the possibility of a bungee-jumping-cord, the fact that Sherlock Holmes had yet to reveal the mechanism behind it all had only made the betting pool grow.

 

No, Yu corrects, he’s not just studying the screen, he’s ever so subtly sneaking glances at the people next to him.

 

On the floor in front of the desk, a toddler with a halo of dark curls is clutching a couple of pens while John Watson is searching through a stack of papers. John Watson is no less of a legend in the Yard, mostly due to the length of which he’s managed to share a flat with Sherlock without going mental. Though since the revelation that John was an Omega, the rumors had taken a more perverse turn, with sniggers and raucous laughter whenever his name was mentioned. Yu had quickly given those colleagues a wide berth.

 

Yu has been an avid follower of John’s blog ever since he published A Study in Pink. She had even once, on a dare from a friend, and inebriated by too much sake, gone over to Baker Street in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him. This had been six months after Sherlock’s suicide and the blinds had been pulled close. The landlady had informed her that nobody lived in 221 B anymore, but perhaps Yu would like some tea and biscuits and tell Mrs. Hudson all about her problem? The tea had been nice and Yu had left with an extra piece of sand cake.

 

“Fetch me a hard copy of the webpage,” Lestrade demands, “I need the information in my hands.” Lestrade makes a sweeping gesture with his right hand as if Yu needs a visual demonstration.

 

“Yes, sir,” Yu replies and cannot suppress a polite bob of her head as she hurries out of the office.

 

Lestrade combs a hand through his hair and sends a quick text to Molly explaining that it will be the second day in a row he won’t make it in time for dinner. Thankfully, Molly understands and asks if she should come over with some supper later on. Lestrade responds in the affirmative, sending a silent prayer of thanks to God for the gift of making Molly Hooper his wife. Lestrade looks at John and the child-Sam, he reminds himself- and cannot help to feel slightly guilty that he might never have come to realize what an amazing woman Molly is, if not for their participating in covering up for Sherlock’s death.

 

Christ, if they had known about Sam, would they still have been able to keep mums about it? What about Sherlock- would he have aborted his mission and returned to London?

 

No, Lestrade thinks, it might have made him more determined to complete it, to keep them safe.

 

He might have chosen never to return.

 

Lestrade rubs a hand over the back of his neck and catches Sherlock’s eyes as the detective watches John. He knows that John and Sherlock’s relationship is a complicated one, that there’s this biological imperative that draws them together. One of the first things he’d learned about Sherlock was that he was an Alpha, but had firmly maintained that his biology was nothing but transport. Lestrade had worked with several Alphas during his career in the metropolitan police. Some had lived up to the stereotype of being too quick to anger, relentless and dominating, while other’s had been suave and charismatic.After the major actors behind the collapse of the banks were revealed to be alphas, many blamed them for their financial situation while others thought they were a menace to society because of their short temper. But, until now people had been content with merely tagging their hatred on old factory walls or ranting on the Internet.

 

Christ, this was just what was needed for the whole thing to explode: somebody throwing gasoline on the bloody fire. 

 

“Is any of this true?”  he asks.

 

“It could be the most obvious of fictions, it would not matter. That wasn’t the point,” Sherlock says without looking at Lestrade, he is however, still looking at John, and then he opens Lestrade’s desk and hands John a bundle of papers without as much as by your leave.

 

“You sure he can draw on these?” John asks, a quick glance at Lestrade.

 

“It’ll be fine, these reports are utterly useless,” Sherlock ensures him and then returns his attention to the computer.

 

“What then, was the point?” Lestrade asks pulling his mind away from the strange tableau that has Sherlock being part of such a domestic scene. Sam signs something to John, who responds with a smile and a few fluid gestures with his hands. The kid is pretty cute, with a shock of dark hair, and that unique coloration in his eyes that Lestrade had only ever seen in Sherlock. Really, there was no doubt that he was the kid’s father. That this somehow also meant that John was his father was an area of biology where Lestrade would happily profess his total ignorance.

 

“The point,” Sherlock declares, “is to incite chaos. You take a country teeming with a frustrated, unemployed populace, many of whom have lost their entire life savings, or have parents, siblings, aunts or uncles affected by the Banking Scandal, and you give them something to focus their anger at. Somebody to blame. You throw in a tragic story of child abuse and you got a very volatile cocktail.“

 

“Fine, yes, I understand,” Lestrade mutters, “but do you think that is what Edward Blithely was hoping to achieve by his broadcast?”

 

“Edward Blithely is just a pawn. If it wasn’t for that webpage we might have thought he was sincere in his desire to increase awareness of child abuse.”

 

“Do you mean it was all an act to get attention for his webpage?”

 

“It’s obvious.”

 

Lestrade’s count reaches five before Sherlock can no contain his urge to explain how he reached this brilliant conclusion.

 

“The way he casts his glance to the side, looking for confirmation from somebody that he’s on the right track, the calm way he talks about his sister’s suicide, the effective use of pauses to enhance his message. This was a speech that has been practiced and edited many times.”

 

“That’s not really unusual,” Lestrade argues, “news anchors and reporters practices their lines or reads prompts.”

 

“That’s not interesting,” Sherlock says with the dismissive frown he uses when Lestrade has a made a valid point that he’s forced to take into consideration. Lestrade catches John’s pleased little smirk and cannot help but return it. It’s nice to have Sherlock Holmes back.

 

“The questions you should be asking are: who coached him, who made him go on live television to tell this story. If the information on this website is true, how did he get it, what are they hoping to accomplish, why do they want chaos in England?”

 

Lestrade’s reply is interrupted by a soft knock on the door as Yu Kosaki returns carrying a thick file. She shuffles quietly into the room and hands Lestrade the files with a small bow.

 

“Sir, your office phone isn’t working,” she points out, her voice quiet.

 

“What? That’s impossible, I-”

 

Sherlock holds up the receiver, “I took it off the hook,” he says, “you’re going to be bogged down with stupid people calling in to complain about how horrid Alphas have ruined their lives and why you aren’t doing more to stop them.”

 

“Christ, Sherlock, you can’t just disconnect my office phone….” Lestrade strides across the office and returns phone down on the receiver. It rings immediately.

 

“Yes? How may I….” Lestrade’s face goes through an interesting assortment of expressions before it settles in a deep scowl and he slams the phone down.

 

The phone rings again and this time Lestrade only has it to his ear for a second before he tosses it away and yanks the phone cord out of the wall. Sherlock’s lips twitch. He twists the computer screen around to show Lestrade.

 

“Your number is on the website, along with the rest of the senior officers at the Yard and the Chief Police Commissioner,” Sherlock informs him. “I would suggest getting new numbers and making sure your internal phone catalogue is better protected.”

 

“Call me on my cell if there’s anything important,” Lestrade mumbles in an effort to make it appear that he is still in control of what happens in his own office. Yu Kosaki bows again, and then hurries out.

 

“Shite,” Lestrade flips through the bundle of papers, “there’s gotta be fifty names here.”

 

“Fifty three,” Sherlock corrects. “Our murder victims are numbers twenty five and twenty six. Simon is obviously not on the list. We need to figure out how he ended up the third victim along with the two Alphas.”

 

“You mean the triple homicide at the primary school in Essex?” John says, slowly rising from the floor where he’s been working on a drawing with Sam.

 

Sherlock watches him, his expression perfectly blank. Only John recognizes the way he narrows his eyes slightly, the way he does when he’s waiting for John to say something interesting.

 

John feels the quickening of his pulse. For just a moment, it will be just like before, when Sherlock was a consulting detective (the only one in the world, truly) and John was his blogger and friend and they were working together to solve some fiendish crime. “May I?”

 

Lestrade’s only response is to wave John over to the crime scene board at the far end of his office. John glances at Sam, who is occupied with coloring the empty figure of a man on an autopsy report that is used to indicate the location of wounds.

 

It’s been a while since John has seen any violent crime scenes. He feels Sherlock’s eyes on him, as if he’s trying to gauge John’s reaction. And John realizes he needs a moment, even if it’s just a small one, to brace himself for the images pinned to the crime scene board.

 

The three victims are suspended to the ceiling, a hangman’s’ noose around their necks. The ligatures from the rope encircles their neck, running from the midline above the thyroid cartilage symmetrically upward on both sides of the neck to the occipital region.

 

The thick rope has been attached to a solid hook that has probably been used for the thick climbing ropes. They are naked, hanging a couple of feet from the floor, the full weight of their body acting as a constricting force. A Complete Hanging.  There are ligature marks from industrial tape that bound their hands and feet, and the lower half of their bodies is covered in blood from incisions that removed their genitals. The cuts are clear and precise, made by somebody who knew what they were doing.

 

John closes his eyes, suddenly beset with memories. Something roars in his ears, there’s the taste of sand in his mouth, the weight of rope around his neck. He swallows, forces himself to stare at the pictures, to let his medical knowledge provide him with a detailed step-by-step of the victim’s last moments. The loss of control of his own body and his senses. Flashes of lights flaring across the eyes, white noise in the ears, the struggle to regain control of your wits, the final, logical cruelty is the knowledge that you cannot do anything to help yourself. Then comes the final, merciful moment where the loss of consciousness is so rapid that it almost makes it a painless death. Then follows the stages of convulsion, the face livid, eyes prominent, and a violent vicious struggle. Respiration stops before the heart does, which may continue to pump blood for another 10 to 15 minutes.

 

He hears the catch in his own breath as Sherlock comes to stand beside him. There’s a thrumming in his body that he hasn’t felt for many years, that he was certain he’d never see again, his senses recognizing the presence of his Alpha.

 

“You’ve seen this before,” Sherlock’s voice is low, soft, like John’s a spooked animal that needs careful handling. John balls his hands into fists; he won’t let Sherlock think him weak and easily afflicted.

 

“In Afghanistan,” John confirms, “death by hanging is a common method of execution. I think this is an execution as well.” He gestures to the pictures of the three victims.

 

“What’s the difference between an execution and a murder?”

 

It’s obvious that the question is for his benefit, that Sherlock is guiding his thoughts along the path to his conclusion.

 

“An execution is legitimate, a murder is not. A government can have the authorization to kill its citizens, but citizens do not have the right to kill each other. I doubt it matters to the victim if it’s an official executioner or a murderer who puts the noose around their neck, but the judicial and sociological differences are important. The executioner is maintaining order in society, upholding the law, while the murderer is breaking it.” John wets his lips, his breathing a little heavier than normal.

 

“This was obviously planned,” Lestrade interrupts before John can continue, “the victims chosen, incapacitated by Stesolid-”

 

“-Not incapacitated,” John corrects, “the coroner notes that they were given doses corresponding to their approximate body weight. It would only have made them pliable, they could very well have been walking on their own, which is probably what they wanted to achieve or they wouldn’t have been so careful with the measuring of the dose.”

 

John steals a glance at Sam, who is happily balling up sheets of paper in his tiny fist and babbling to the picture he’s drawing. The mere sight of him stills the wild beating of his heart. He turns his attention to Sherlock, who is staring impassively at the pictures of the crime scene. John knows Sherlock well enough to recognize when his expression is just window dressing.

 

He is watching John, without even looking at him.

 

Christ, John thinks, he really wants to impress Sherlock. He knows that it’s the Omega, wanting the attention of the alpha, but the knowledge doesn’t make him feel any less ridiculous, like a dog wagging his tail, eager to please.

 

         Lestrade frowns. “You think the victims were measured and weighed?”

 

John lifts his shoulders into a brief shrug. “An experienced physician or nurse would have been able to make an approximate guess. I’d say there’s a bit of a risk involved in drugging Alphas on Stesolid, their body chemistry usually dissolves toxins faster. This seems like a well planned venture, so they must have known the drug would work, which would indicate either prior experience or extensive medical knowledge.”

 

John doesn’t like to think about Doctor Fenway and the experimentations he and Jacob conducted. Had it included testing chemicals and drugs on Alphas? Is that why the killers knew the Stesolid would work?

 

He takes a deep breath and continues, “there is a ritual to it, a ceremony, like with all executions. The room was probably prepared for them with the ropes already ready, the floor covered in plastic, the chairs…. And then the men are led to their death. The point of the execution ceremony is to mark that this…this isn’t just a triple murder. He’s upholding law and order, or rather his view of it.”

 

“What about the body mutilation, doesn’t that go against the “legitimization” of the execution?” Lestrade gestures to the close up of the incisions in the groins. Despite extensive searches in the schoolyard and in the surrounding areas, they hadn’t recovered the missing body parts.

 

“Well,” John shrugs, “I could be wrong, or the mutilation has been necessary for some other purpose and the perpetrator had to just contend themselves with leaving a poor impression of the ceremony.”

 

“What other purpose would it serve?”

 

“Well, the other victims could have been witnessing what was going to happen to them, the perpetrator could have been wanting to leave his own…calling card. If we’re thinking that there’s two of them, working together, which seems likely because even if they were drugged we are talking about three full-grown men in their prime, of which two Alphas… They could have had a disagreement on what sort of message they were leaving.”

 

“Or they were after information,” Lestrade concludes and John nods.

 

“The announcement today could have been an attempt at garnering support, to, as you say legitimize the crime,” Lestrade muses, “but if that’s the case, why hasn’t anybody come forward to take credit?”

 

“Because of Simon Whitewell,” Sherlock drawls, “he doesn’t fit. He’s not an Alpha and he was supposed to have been killed in some spectacular fashion to commemorate my suicide.”

 

It happens in a flash.

 

John’s back on the curb, staring at the dark figure on the rooftop.

He’s watching him tumble through the air.

There’s blood on the pavement.

There’s no pulse.

 

John curls his fingers into fists as if he can anchor his emotions in his hands before they show on his face. But he should know better then to try and hide anything from Sherlock Holmes. He feels a hand on his elbow, an uncertain, hesitant touch. He knows this is Sherlock trying to comfort him, and it’s such an uncharacteristic sentiment that it almost hurts more than the memories.

 

“John,” Sherlock says gently. John struggles forth a thin smile, and then he’s saved from having to muddle his way through the words lodged in his throat by Sam, who starts to cry.

 

It’s the sudden, loud, hiccupping kind of crying that makes it seem like the end of the world is nigh. The sound makes Sherlock leap away from him and stare at Sam as if he’s a bomb that needs to be defused. Even Lestrade looks startled and like he suddenly wants to be anywhere else.

 

John sighs deeply, a bit amused by the hopeless Alpha, and kneels in front of Sam. He smooths a hand over his cowlick, brushing back his hair and gently wiping away a few tears from his chubby cheeks. The crying ceases immediately, but Sam’s eyes are still large and shiny and John knows it won’t take much to make them spill again. Sam extends his hands to John, who easily fits him into his arms.

 

 _What is wrong?_ He needs to repeat it a few times before Sam responds, his hand movements jagged as he struggles to catch his breath. _Only do art on paper._

 

 _Oh, I see. Well, I think Lestrade’s floor could do with a bit of coloring. It looks better this way._ John shuffles a few autopsy reports aside. Most of the papers have been decorated with large swirls of colored ink and chicken scratches, some of which bearing clear resemblance to the letters in Sam’s name. In his enthusiasm for his art, some of the lines have run from the papers to the linoleum floor.

Sam sniffles and gives John a look that tells him that he’s not fully convinced of John’s assessment of the situation and John knows that the best way out of this is to use the element of distraction, so he picks up the paper Sam has been working on. On the blank side of an old report is a massive round circle of blue with solid blocks in the middle.

 

 _What’s this then?_ John asks.

 

Sam’s brown settles into why-must-I suffer-this-idiocy- frown that John’s all too familiar with and John wants to cuddle the smugness out of him. _Ducks,_ Sam signs with exasperation, _in the pond._

 

 _I see it now,_ John says, trying to will out some duck-like shapes in the smear of blue.

 

 _Go home,_ Sam signs, and then, because he knows the most effective way to get whatever he wants, he peers at John from under his long eyelashes, raises his right hand, thumb extended, _please._

 

John looks at his watch and realizes that it’s drawing close to five in the afternoon. He feels a stab of guilt for getting so caught up in working on the case. It had been nice, impressing Sherlock and working with Lestrade and forgetting all these unsolved issues between them. But he’s a dad now and he’d promised a long time ago that Sam would always come first.

 

“Is he alright?” Lestrade says, the first to break the silence. John dares a glance at Sherlock. He’s standing absolutely still, and for once his expression betrays nothing of how he feels.

 

“Yes, he’s just tired, it’s been a long day. I think we’d best be off.”

 

“Oh, right. You need me to see you out?”

 

“We’re fine.”

 

 _Are you going to say goodbye?_ Sam’s only response is to fling his arms dramatically around John’s neck and hide his face.

 

“Well, then,” John pauses and waits for Sherlock to complete the sentence with a goodbye, or see you later, or let me borrow your phone, or anything really.

 

“Good bye,” John says firmly when Sherlock remains silent, securing his embrace around Sam, holding him more tightly than necessary.

 

When the door closes safely behind him, John allows himself to experience the pain that came with….what, Sherlock’s rejection? Is that what he recognized in the silence? He’s not sure how to name it, because Sherlock hadn’t said or done anything.

 

At all.

 

_“What if he’s not interested?”_

_Mycroft looks at him from over the rim of his teacup, much like the wolf probably looked at Little Red Riding Hood. He’s waiting for John to elaborate, but John finds that he’s struggling to put his fear into words._

_“Interested?” Mycroft says, mercifully breaking the silence and opening the gates for John to spill._

_“In being a father,” John bites, dragging a hand through his hair, “Christ, you should have heard him. He was…he was so excited. Happy. Faking his death, spending years undercover, returning to a gruesome triple homicide with no leads. That’s what he finds interesting, not wondering how you can find suitable playgroups for your deaf son.”_

_Mycroft is silent for all the time he takes to empty his cup of tea. John doesn’t know if he’s leaving room for John to reach his own conclusions, like he usually does, or if he’s actually giving the problem due consideration._

_“Be that as it may,” Mycroft finally replies, smoothly, “you cannot make that choice for him, nor can you expect him to make one without all the facts and evidences laid out before him. He has to know what he is choosing.”_

_“What if he regrets his choice?” John frets, “I don’t want Sam to have to compete for his father’s attention against crime scenes. We can’t be a….a pit stop between crimes.”_

Sherlock’s mind has always been brilliant and surprising, and clearly Sherlock sees and knows and deduces more than anybody else on the planet. And when he has a case, it is like that cold wall around him cracks, leaving him bewitching and dazzling and oh so bright that John cannot possibly look at anybody else.

But his brilliant mind isn’t the only reason he loves. His eyes is so startling expressive and the bemused glance he used to give John in the privacy of their exchange, when Anderson does something ridiculous and they share a conversation with no words, only smiles and looks that run between them and leaves John hopelessly wanting more and every day and only for him.

 

And now he has more. He has the memory of Sherlock’s fingers skimming along his bare arms, of his breath ghosting across the back of his neck. He knows the pitch of his voice when he softly moaned John’s name against his skin, knows the fire that twists along his spine. He has Sherlock’s son in his arms.

 

He’s only managed a few steps down the corridor when Sherlock calls his name. It’s a call that John is hardwired to respond to. John stops. Draws a breath. He fights a brief, losing battle with his head and heart, which have formed an alliance against him.

 

“Sherlock,” John replies, slowly turning around with Sam still in his arms.

 

The Omega senses the Alpha’s nervousness as Sherlock closes the distance between them, even if it’s a feeling he’s never experienced from him before. Sherlock stops, inches from them, and John can feel Sam squirming in his arms, as if Sherlock has just breached his comfort zone and he’s trying to get away.

 

“Hang on,” John says; he shifts his weight a little, settling Sam against his chest and feels two tiny fists grab hold of the collar of his jacket. “Sorry, he’s getting heavy.”

 

Something shifts on Sherlock’s face, a new emotion simmering in his eyes, and he reaches out to place his hand carefully against Sam’s back. Sam stops his squirming and John feels the grip on his neck tighten, just for a second, before it relaxes. Sherlock’s anxiousness is evident in everything but his touch. His hand skims tenderly up Sam’s back, brushing the short curls at the nape of his neck, while his gaze is locked on the tiny rise and fall of Sam’s back.

 

There’s a split second of gut-churning realization when John recognizes that it’s admiration and affection flitting across Sherlock’s face. There’s a thundering rush of blood as John’s chest swells with horrendous guilt for all the nasty little doubts that he’s been brewing, and he ducks his head aside to keep a straight face. For a moment, there’s a resounding stillness, but there’s no shelter from his guilt, not even in his own head.

 

“We should do something,” Sherlock says quietly, “something ordinary.”

 

“Ordinary?” John struggles through the word as if Sherlock’s suddenly spoken in a foreign language.

 

“We should have lunch. Together, tomorrow?” Sherlock suggests, and John could have sworn he actually sounds nervous about it.

 

 John struggles to keep his voice steady when he replies, “yeah, sure. Do you…um, want to come to where we are staying?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says breathlessly. His hand travels from Sam’s curls, over his shoulder, crossing over to John’s arm, long fingers wrapping carefully around his arm.

 

“All right.”

 

“I will see you then,” Sherlock says, and then slides his hand along John’s arm until he reaches his hand, gently tugging John towards him. He squeezes John’s hand. And then, it’s as Sherlock’s woken up from this decent into distracting and weirdly endearing behavior and his lips curls into that pleased grin he uses just for John.

 

“Oh, and you were brilliant- executions, yes, exactly!”

 

John fights the smile off his face, but Sherlock’s not quite finished with his decent into madness, because suddenly he leans over and kisses John’s cheek. It’s nothing but a brief, wet pressure on John’s cheek, but it makes him flush all the way to the tips of his ears. Then Sherlock spins on the heels of his shoes, and hurries back down the corridor to Lestrade’s office.

 

 

 

 

The next afternoon Sherlock finds himself standing outside the pale oak door to one of Mycroft’s London flats. He’s been oscillating in the hallway for several minutes, debating the pros and cons of knocking on the door versus entering unannounced. In the end, he doesn’t need to make a decision, because the door opens and a stringy woman in a mac coat and with a shawl around her head opens the door.

 

“Mr. Holmes, we have been expecting you,“ she says cheerfully, “why don’t you enter, the doctor and the young master will be home in a moment.”

 

Sherlock lets his gaze sweep over her form, noticing the yellow stains on her fingertips (still nursing an old smoking habit), her low, sensible shoes and the trimmed edges of her tartan skirt. She moves with a fluidity that makes Sherlock deduce that, aside from nursing a nicotine addiction, she has lived the life of an athlete.

 

“I’m Mrs. Kettle, the housekeeper.”

 

“Right,” Sherlock replies, suspicious at what caused Mycroft’s standards in housekeepers to change so dramatically. She’s still smiling as he brushes past her, though her eyes linger for just a moment too long to be considered prudent.

 

The door closes behind him and Sherlock finds himself in a sleek, modern corridor decorated with a few framed aquarelles of flowers. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it next to one of John’s. He lets his fingers brush over the green duffle coat he’d first seen Sam in. It looks tiny, next to his Belstaff.

 

The apartment feels more like a hotel room than a home, with every surface clean and shiny and not a thing out of place. No magazines, newspapers or journals. No medical books, microscopes or old takeaway cartons. The utensils in the kitchen are all polished chrome and brushed plastic, and an enormous cooker takes up an entire wall. There’s not a speck of dust on his fingertip after Sherlock swipes it over the surface of the countertop. In the fridge stand a couple of homemade chicken-and-salad sandwiches under a plastic sheet, a plate of cut fruits and a lonely juice box. The rest of the fridge’s content is all ridiculously healthy and upscale produces. There’s not a single box containing body parts or experiments of any kind.

 

He finds John’s room next and he only knows it’s John’s room because it carries the faint trace of his scent.

 

There are a couple of shirts and cardigans and trousers hanging in the walk-in wardrobe, all of them new. Sherlock thinks about all the boxes with John’s things that are still sitting in his room in Baker Street. When John left, he didn’t even take the time to pack those ridiculous jumpers he’s fond of, or that expensive shirt from his sister that he wears when he’s dressing up. John’s frugal with his items and Sherlock isn’t certain which option distresses him the most: that John didn’t bother to pack, or that he was unable to? Even now, these new clothes tell the story of a hasty departure from wherever he had been living when Sherlock returned. As always, John dropped whatever he was doing and came to Sherlock, even if Sherlock hadn’t asked him to.

 

On the other side of the en suite is Sam’s room. A bed is secured along one wall with a railing running parallel along the length of the bed, probably to keep Sam from rolling out of his bed during the night. There are plenty of toys on the dark, wooden desk under the window, such as a geometric puzzle of wooden blocks, stackable mirror blocks, magnetic tiles, stuffed animals, a toy microscope, dozens of puzzles and pedantic books about numbers, letters and sign language. These are nice toys, all of them catered to encourage Sam’s problem-solving and critical thinking skills. These are toys that Sherlock would have approved of. 

 

Of course Mycroft has been the one to pay for all these toys, and probably for John’s clothes and Sam’s green coat too. There’s an odd tension in his chest at the realization that his older brother has been the one providing for Sherlock’s family (even if, they are also Mycroft’s family now.)

 

He has taken a role that should have been Sherlock’s, even if Sherlock didn’t know he was supposed to fill it.

 

The tightness twists around his heart as he stares and stares at all the toys.

 

There’s so many things he’ll never know, all those milestones he’s missed and won’t be able to simply deduce. The first steps, the teething, the first words, the first smile. Are Sam’s smiles more like John or are they like Sherlock’s? He will need his own spreadsheet to collect the necessary data to make an accurate comparison.

 

What is his favorite toy?

What books does he enjoy to read?

 

Does he really like to watch the ducks at the pond or has he, like Sherlock, deduced the best ways of making John happy (because John likes ordinary things, sometimes, like walks in the park, the pub) knowing that seeing John happy made him happy as well?

 

Sherlock doesn’t have the time to make even a tentative conclusion, because the door opens and he hears John’s careful “Hello?” echo down the corridor. Sherlock slips out of Sam’s bedroom and balls his fists into hands to hide his jittery nerves.

 

“Sherlock, are you here?”

 

He lingers behind the corner for a moment (certainly not lurking) to give himself a few seconds to watch John and Sam’s interaction (which was quickly becoming his most favorite thing to observe.)

 

Sam is dressed in a yellow raincoat with black wellies (there are bees on them. John got him these boots, because John has kept Sherlock alive for Sam. Mycroft would never do something as pedestrian). Sam is nattering happily at John, and Sherlock is able to pick out a few words. _Ducks. Pond. Rain. Puddle. Wet. Dirty. Fun!_

 

“I’m sorry we’re late, but somebody was insisting on going out in the rain,” John calls down the corridor, signing the words for Sam before he untangles him from his damp and sticky raincoat. Sam does the rest himself, pulling off his wellies and placing them neatly along the wall, handing his hat to John, hanging up his rain coat and fishing out several pebbles from the pocket of John’s coat. He coos excitedly at the rocks, before carefully putting them into the pocket of his own raincoat.

 

“That is quite alright, your housekeeper let me in,” Sherlock says, rounding the corner. Sam freezes and stares at Sherlock with large, spooked eyes, while one hand finds hold of John’s trousers and grabs it, tightly. You didn’t need to be the world’s only consulting detective to recognize the fear threatening on the edges of his eyelashes. Sherlock doesn’t chastise himself, not now, he’ll do so later in the privacy of his own mind palace.

 

“He gets a bit unnerved when people appear unannounced,” John explains, carefully placing a hand on Sam’s head, combing back his curls. Sam makes grabby hands at John, and John kneels until he has Sam’s attention, saying slowly, _Remember, you met Sherlock yesterday._

Sam shakes his head, and clings to John.

 

 _Yes you do,_ John smiles, _why don’t you show him you know how to say hello?_

 

Sam looks like he’s not going to be fooled by John’s attempt at reverse psychology, but then he turns slowly to face Sherlock, keeping one hand anchored on John’s leg. He raises his left hand, palm out in a half circle wave.

 

 _Hello, Sam,_ Sherlock returns, his own movement clumsy with the unfamiliar gestures of the simple phrases he’s been practicing. Sam, however, is impressed, even though he twists away from Sherlock and tucks his head against John’s knee.  Sherlock quells his unease with the knowledge that John had said Sam was shy around strangers (which Sherlock is after all) and that all research (even if it was limited to parenting sites) showed that almost all toddlers experience the occasional bouts of bashfulness around unfamiliar adults.

 

Sherlock doesn’t quite see what Sam tells John, but John chuckles and kisses Sam’s temple before responding, _Yes, he is very tall, you might be one day as well. Do you want to show Sherlock your puzzle, he’s awfully clever and he might be able to help you finish it._

Sam gives Sherlock a dubious once over and Sherlock realizes that he’s suddenly on the other end of a calculated judgment of his intellect and feels eager to prove himself of John’s merit. After a long while under Sam’s scrutiny, Sam nods to John and lets go of his trousers.

 

_Great, I’ll put on the kettle and come and get you for lunch in a bit._

 

 _No cucumbers,_ Sam signs with vehemence and John sighs, running a hand through his curls again before agreeing, _Alright_ , _no cucumbers._

 

“He’s got this phase of hating green food,” John explains and the only thing Sherlock can do is nod, because he didn’t know toddlers might go through phases of food phobia. Is this normal? Should he concerned? John doesn’t seem to be. He tries to think about who he knows who has children so they can give him sound advice to fill this gaping void of knowledge (Lestrade might have a child somewhere, and he is fairly certain Stamford has at least three, judging by the abstract homemade art he likes to decorate his walls with. These are (somewhat) dependable sources of information.)

 

“That’s understandable,” Sherlock replies, “I don’t much prefer green food myself.”

 

“Let’s try to keep him from inheriting your appalling eating habits,” John mutters, “or lack of them.”

 

Sherlock savors that statement, filing it away somewhere safe where he keeps all evidence that indicates a shared future with the three of them.

 

Sam ambles down the corridor to his room and Sherlock follows in his wake, mindful of remaining in line of sight at all times.

 

It turns out that there is an actual puzzle, consisting of thirty wooden animal pieces made to fit together in a square. A few animals have already been placed in the corners and Sam settles down on the floor, grabbing an elephant shaped piece. Sherlock isn’t quite certain what his role is meant to be, but standing makes him feel awkward (and tall) in a way he hasn’t felt since his first and only disastrous day at preschool.

 

In the end, he pushes a few toys aside and lowers himself to the floor. Sam studies him from this new perspective and while Lestrade had pointed out how the kid was a carbon copy of Sherlock, Sherlock sees so much of John in their son. The curve of the shell of his ear, the slope of his neck, the tiny frown at the cat shaped puzzle piece, his chubby fingers, and his relatively small hands. He carries his scent too (tea, wool, rain, soap). Sherlock is aware of his stomach turning over slowly, but he doesn’t know what to make of it.

 

Sam works in silence, trying to fit a piece in this way and that, before he eventually holds it up to Sherlock for to assess.

 

 _Try other way round,_ Sherlock suggests, and he is rewarded with a delighted squeal when the piece slots perfectly into place. It’s apparently enough for Sam to regard Sherlock with some tentative respect, because he gives Sherlock the next piece to place on the square. They work in tandem until the puzzle is complete, and then Sam giggles and turns the puzzle around, spilling wooden figures all over the floor.

 

 _Read blue book,_ he signs, standing up and pointing to a stack of books on his nightstand. There are several books here, most of which are blue and it takes Sherlock four attempts to locate the right one, much to Sam’s mounting frustration.

 

Sherlock offers the book to Sam, who takes it and then clambers onto the edge of the bed. _Sit,_ he gestures. Sherlock hesitates for a moment before sitting down next to his son, feeling the warmth from his body against his legs.

 

Sam fingerspells something that looks like, _Sjerlo_ , his fingers missing the last letters, but he knows enough sign language to recognize the attempt at his own name. _Read,_ Sam says with large, insisting eyes, pressing the books into Sherlock’s hands.

 

He opens the book, and is surprised to see that the first picture is of Sam, a few months younger, caught in a moment of unawareness as he’s watching something.

 

The book reads, “Hi, I am_____” and in the gap somebody (John) has filled in Sam’s name. The narrative continues in this way with John filling in the date of his birthday, how long he was when he was born and how much he weighed. When Sherlock has navigated his way through he first two pages, Sam turns the pages and Sherlock stares down at a picture of John, looking years younger (before his last deployment) and Sherlock, collar tucked up under his chin and looking at something far away. An odd echo of Sam’s picture.

 

“These are my daddies, John and Sherlock.”

 

Sam spells John’s name without difficulties, and then shapes a J and with his right hand and touches his cheek and Sherlock thinks this might be John’s name sign. Sam touches Sherlock’s pictures and then points at Sherlock.

 

_Yes, that is me._

 

Sam crosses his hands in front of his chest, sliding them outwards and then makes a V with his index and middle fingers, sliding them both downwards. _Not_ , Sherlock thinks, _dead._

 

Sherlock struggles past the lump in his throat, his skin suddenly clammy, and places a hand on Sam’s head like he’s seen John do. The gesture is easy, almost mindlessly instinctive, as he soothes back his son’s curls.

 

 _No,_ Sherlock signs, _Alive._

 

Sam is pleased with having been proved to be correct and continues with the book with a big toothy grin. Sherlock’s hand slides down Sam’s back, cradling him slightly against Sherlock’s side. Sherlock tries not to smile, but is hard, the way Sam’s body melts against him and he feels odd, all glowy and warm, pressed together. 

 

And he doesn’t worry that caring isn’t an advantage.

 

Not until later.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like, as always, to emphasise how grateful I am for every comment and kudos, it´s the lifeblood of this story. Thank you <3
> 
> There´s been a bit of a wait since last chapter, and there might be a bit to wait until the next one, so here is a longish chapter to tide you over. Speaking of length, I think this story will run about as long as Apoptosis and I hope you will all stay with me until the end.
> 
> Thanks to CowMow for being my beta and soundboard, you´re ace.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter and will share your thoughts, ideas and opinions with me.

Contains quotes from the SotF.

 **Warning for possible triggers:** mentions of domestic abuse, violence, child abuse and pornography. It is none explicit and mentioned briefly in discussion with the case.

 

 

 

**Chapter thirteen.**

 

The add covers an entire page in the newspaper, it’s in full color and must have cost a fortune.

 

On the top of the page, there is a picture of a young man, probably more than sixteen or seventeen. But the angling of the picture and the faded colors make him look younger somehow. The grainy quality, the hairstyle, and the faded t-shirt indicates that the picture had been taken sometime during the nineties. He’s pudgy in the way that some kids gets when they experience the catering at universities and having to cook their own meals. The boy gives the camera a shy, resigned smile and it doesn’t take many leaps of the imagination to understand that the boy would rather be anywhere else. Around his neck is an arm, clad in black, holding a tight and firm grip on the boy’s round shoulders, the fingers digging into his arms. The rest of the man has been cut from the picture.

 

Further down on the page is a smaller image, this time of a man staring straight into the camera with a sightless stare locked on something far beyond the shoulder of the photographer. It’s a round face with thinning hair and pudgy shoulders and if it weren’t for the eyes it would have difficult to see any resemblance in the two individuals.

 

The text between the two photographs has been made using the kind of font one associates with old-fashioned typewriters, square, bold letters, probably to enhance the raw message. Four short paragraphs tells of a meeting with an Alpha that started with a sexual assault and that it led to years of abuse. That the man had been informed by an authority that the two of them were meant to be together. That the Alpha could not be held accountable for being unable to control the way nature had designed him. The boy had, on the order of the Alpha, abandoned his education, cut off all ties with his family and spent the rest of his life as the Alpha’s possession. The last paragraph was nothing but a series of questions. How many are forced to spend their lives with the man who assaulted him? Why was the Alpha not held accountable for his assault? How many lived in constant fear of Alphas?

 

In a lecture hall at the London School of Economics and Science, the students at LSE100 were reading the newspaper add. One of the students, Ms. Julie Summers had asked the lecturer for a couple of minutes at the start of the lesson, there was something she wanted to tell. Now the lecturer sat in the back of the class and enjoyed the view. Ms. Julie Summers was one of his top students and it had only cost her a loose smile to buy the first ten minutes of the lecture.

 

When the students had finished reading, Ms. Julie Summers started to calmly talk about her childhood. Like Edward Blithley, her voice was smooth and calm, without a hint of anger or resentment. She enthralled and captured her audience from her very first words and never before had the students paid such rapt attention to what was being said at the lecture podium. A single tear trickles down her cheek. Every word seeded something in them, a desire to fight for her cause, that it was now their cause as well, and never before in their young life had they ever felt anything so keenly.

 

Ms. Julie Summers stands at the podium and smiles wanly at the sea of students, now murmuring their agreement, their outrage, their favor to do something about these brutal Alphas who were allowed to live in society as if they weren’t a menace, as if they were normal human beings. They had infiltrated the highest accolades of government. They pretended to be upstanding cities doing important work for the benefit and the welfare of all when in reality they had ruined the lives of thousands of innocent people. 

 

Something had to be done.

 

What the pupils in LSE100 don't know is that Julie Summers has practiced this very speech for months. She had been told that one day the add in the newspaper would come and that on that day she would have to be ready. So she had prepared. She had practiced. She’s stood in front of the mirror and practiced the right kind of memory to dredge up that single tear. Her speech has been edited and every pause, every shy glance to the floor, the faint blush that tinted her cheeks had been perfected. She knew that the lecture hall was just the general act, that the first real act would come later.

 

The speech only lasts for a couple of minutes and she finishes with a final tear, clinging to her eyelashes and a prayer to her classmates to help her spread the message. She was just like the man in the newspaper, a victim of an abusive Alpha. But unlike him, she couldn’t afford expensive and fancy adds in the biggest newspaper in the United Kingdom.

 

It doesn’t take many seconds for the students pull out their laptops and smartphones. Practiced thumbs glide over the screens, fingers gallop over the keyboard. The message spreads at an exponential growth that results in a million messages by the end of the day.

  

In Mycroft’s kitchen in an upscale apartment on Savile Road, John Watson is also reading the newspaper add.

 

He lost the habit of reading the newspaper the following weeks after Sherlock’s fake suicide when the media knew no boundaries in their speculation of the reasons why a genius would commit suicide. It did nothing to lessen John’s nightmares. Now he’s staring at the picture of the teenager and thinks that, if he didn’t already know the story, it would never have recognized the young Glen Reese smiling shyly to the camera.

 

Christ.

 

Sherlock had explained that there were two sides to this current anti-Alpha campaign. Many of the people committed to the cause might very well be innocently involved, but Edward Blithely had been coached and maybe he was genuine in his desire to increase awareness, but there was definitely somebody else behind it.

 

People like Moriarty.

 

Is this really still some elaborate plot concocted by Moriarty and his associates? Would Sherlock have come out of hiding, so to speak, if he wasn’t finished with his game of tag with Moriarty? Perhaps this was his revenge for Sherlock dismantling his web? What are they hoping to achieve by riling people up? What sort of game are they playing now? Why is it connected to Glen Reese?

 

The questions only serve to remind John that there’s still so many things Sherlock and he haven’t gotten around to talk about yet.  What was it like when Sherlock was away? Was it really such a lark? How did he fake his suicide? Why did he think this was the best way to disarm Moriarty?

 

That there’s so many things Sherlock doesn’t know and questions John wants to ask.

 

John folds the paper away, hides it in one of the cupboards. He’ll show it to Sherlock, later. He wants this ordinary lunch, he doesn’t want think about Glen Reese or Edward Blithely’s announcement on the television. He shuts his eyes and navigates his attention to picking up the occasional sound of Sherlock’s voice drifting from Sam’s room. They are talking about a puzzle. He hears Sherlock’s guiding Sam to solve the problem in a soft, patient voice that he doesn’t think he’s ever heard from Sherlock before, yet it sounds like the most natural thing in the world.

 

There’s a strange sensation deep in his chest like he’s been suffering from an undiagnosed fracture in the sternum. And now, this fissure has suddenly knit together and it sets lose this deep pressure in his chest that he thinks he’s been carrying for years, leaving him breathless and lightheaded in all the good ways. And with it comes the realization that no matter the outcome, no matter how strong the storm, they’ll weather the outcome. They’ll be alright in the end, the three of them.

 

“Doctor Watson?”

 

John scrambles out of his thoughts and comes awake to one of Mycroft’s bodyguard standing with a slight look of concern barely visible behind his horn-rimmed glasses. John struggles to dredge up his name, they all have something foreign and Greek and there’s been so many of them and they all seem to share the same penance for expensive suits and ridiculous leather shoes.

 

“Yes?”

 

The concerned look flits away and the guy smiles, “the housekeeper told me to inform you that there’s lunch prepared for you in the fridge.”

 

“Oh. Right,” John frowns, because he hadn’t asked her to prepare anything and wonders if she’s done so on Mycroft’s request and how the older Holmes brother always seems to be at least five steps ahead of them.

 

“Do you need any help?”

 

“I think I can handle pulling some plates out of the fridge and putting on the kettle,” John says, tempering the statement with a smile.

 

“Of course, doctor,” the guy clasps his hands at the small of his back and settles into a military rest that would have John’s former staff sergeant foaming. Then he just stands there, his eyes on John.

 

John’s become quite good at adapting to unfamiliar kitchens, finding plates, cutlery, cups, and glasses. The bodyguard keeps watching him, and while John appreciate Mycroft being a stickler for security, for his dedication in seeing to the safety of John and his nephew, he can’t help but feel a little ridiculous in being supervised in the kitchen.

 

“Look,” John sighs, “I know Mycroft’s got you guys on a pretty strict regime, but, really, we’re fine here.”

 

John swipes his hand in an arch that’s meant to encompass the entire apartment. The bodyguard frowns a little, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He takes a step closer to John and lowers his voice if he’s parting with a great secret.

 

“We do have explicit orders….”

 

“I know, I know,” John raises his hands disarmingly and takes a step back, “but we just want to enjoy lunch, together. As a family, for the first time.”

 

“Of course,” the bodyguard lifts his shoulders, but John can still see the reluctance in his expression. He’s really not happy with the situation.

 

“We’re fine,” John emphasizes and wonders what sort of pep talk Mycroft’s given these guys that make them so hesitant to disobey his orders. “Really.”

 

“I’ll just be outside, doctor,” the guy says carefully, “call if there’s anything you need.”

 

Just then, Sam rushes in, he collides with the bodyguard’s legs, and the man puts a careful hand on Sam’s head, “gotta watch where you are going,” he signs, stepping around Sam with a small smile. Sam ignores him, moving over to John and tugs on John’s trousers until he has his dad’s attention, then raises his right hand, using the index finger of his left hand to point at his palm.

 

Come on then, John replies and Sam tucks his tiny hand into John’s and the together they disappear down the corridor and towards Sam’s room.

 

The bodyguard, who’s real name is Thomas Langley, has been working under the code name Hector for so long he feels more at home with it than his Christian name. He’s been part of the contingent that guards John and Sam for two years and as he watches John and Sam depart, he wishes, not for the first time, that he’d not mind being more than just an observer, an outsider, to this family.

 

He turns to leave, his fingers already typing a short update on his phone to Mycroft when he comes face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes. Or rather, just above his chest.

 

“Sorry,” Hector says, and tips his head at him and carefully circumnavigates Sherlock. Later, he’s glad that there were no witnesses to his dismal reflexes. Suddenly he feels a vice-like grip on him his arm that banks him to a full stop with such force that his phone slips from his hands.

 

“What’s the meaning of this-”

 

Hector studies Sherlock. He’s studying him back, with that intense, scrutinizing only Sherlock Holmes can muster. It’s been rumored to reduce people to quivering puddles of nervous energy, but his poor reflexes none withstanding, Hector is made of sterner stuff.

 

“Was there something you wanted, Mr. Holmes?”

 

He tries to yank his arm free and it takes him two tries to finally slip free of Sherlock’s grasp. Sherlock is still looking at him, not saying anything, but he’s making an odd noise through clenched teeth like he’s fighting some instinct. The sudden whistle of the teapot wakes Sherlock out of whatever impulse  had control of him. He stiffens, glares at Hector and then moves across the room to lift the kettle off the stove.

 

Hector rubs his throbbing arm, certain that he’ll be blue and yellow by tomorrow. He picks up his phone and moves quickly out of the apartment. He’d read about it, of course, everybody has, about this predatory gaze that flicks across an Alpha’s eyes seconds before he strikes. As he gathers control of his skittering pulse, Hector hopes to never see it again.

 

 

They enjoy an ordinary, dull and normal lunch, even if the sandwiches reveals that Mrs. Kettle has a hidden culinary talent that one might only find in a Micheline restaurant. John wonders how he’s ever going to manage the return to the Chinese takeaway.

 

Sam eats toast with strawberry jam, grapes and slices of carrots and apples. He drinks milk out of a plastic cup as if it was tea. Sherlock spends a significant amount of time just staring at his sandwich until Sam points a jam covered finger at Sherlock, signing with his free hand, eat your sandwich.

 

John tries not to stare too much at Sherlock’s fingers and lips as obey Sam’s instructions. Sam bats his long lashes at his father and looks insufferably smug as if he knows what  a marvelous feat it is to get Sherlock to do anything as he’s told without a fuss. For a moment, John entertains the notion that Sam might even get him to pick up some milk on his way home.

 

They’ve just about finished their lunch and John is wondering if he should bring out the newspaper add or if he can finish his tea first when Sherlock’s phone buzzes angrily on the table. Sherlock steals a glance at it before he turns his attention back to Sam who is busy narrating some tale to the remaining fruits on his plate. John knows that research tells him that deaf children will eventually stop producing noises. He feels guilty for knowing that he’ll miss the sound of his son’s voice.

 

Sherlock’s phone gives another insisted buzz, then third and a fourth before it falls silent. John can see the longing in Sherlock’s eyes, his curiosity, and eagerness to check his messages. Just because he’s sitting down at an ordinary lunch doesn’t mean that the world’s greatest detective has stopped working. Not that John ever wants him to, he doesn’t want to change Sherlock Holmes in any way, he doesn’t want to diminish him.

 

He fell in love with the brilliant man, but he doesn’t just love him for his brilliance. He just wants Sherlock to make room for Sam and him, and maybe, on occasions, like now, have an ordinary lunch.

 

“You should check your phone,” John says, “it could be important.” Sherlock goes still for a moment and John feels a sudden ache in the chest.

 

“It’s not some test, Sherlock,” John assures him, “there aren’t ever going to be any tests, or assessments or keeping score or anything.”

 

John can see some of the tension draining out him. Sherlock’s fingers slowly move across the table, wrapping around his phone, then go still, holding the phone in place.

 

“This is important too,” Sherlock says and the curve of his eyebrows are set in a downward slope, inscribing a frown in the center of his forehead.

 

Sam chews on a slice of apple, his eyes the same shade of serious, the same strange in-between colors as the sky, as Sherlock’s eyes.

 

Phone, he signs, making grabby hands for the device. Sherlock slides it into Sam’s waiting hands and Sam squeals with delight as the device starts shaking in his hands. The phone continues it’s insistent vibrating and Sam lifts it to his cheek, giggling at the sensation, his eyes curling in mirth and Sherlock can’t stop the drift of his own smile.  Sam presses the phone against his cheek and when it starts to shake again they are rewarded by peals of laughter.

 

 

Eventually, they start clearing the clutter of their luncheon, Sam proudly carries his own plate to the dishwasher and only manages to spill half of its remaining content on the floor

 

Sam vanishes into his room and returns seconds later with his dog plushie under one arm, a notebook and a bunch of pencils in his tiny fist.

 

Do art, he declares, and John pulls back the chair and Sam scrambles onto it, settling down and sorting his pencils until they lie in a neat row.

 

John dares a glance at Sherlock, who has this intent expression on his face as he watches Sam set up his art supplies. 

  

The phone hisses again.

 

“Lestrade wants to talk, something about a newspaper add.”

 

John feels a coil tighten in his chest, his throat suddenly dry and he swallows down his frustration.

 

“I think I might know what that is about,” John says and moves across the kitchen and pulls the newspaper out from its hiding place. All the while he feels Sherlock’s eyes on him, but the detective doesn’t say anything, doesn’t deduce John’s reasons for hiding the newspaper. He shoves it into Sherlock’s hand and then retreat to Sam’s side, hides his expression in his son’s curls as he places a brief kiss on the top of his head.

 

“Is it?” Sherlock asks after a moment of silence and John suspects it to be a gift of kindness to John. Sherlock would never take that long to recognize the teenager. He wonders how many more these he will need from Sherlock before he can trust himself to walk onto this black ice that’s covering their past. A few more, probably.

 

“Yes.”

 

John is saved from whatever follow up question Sherlock has planned by another intent hissing from Sherlock’s phone and this time he answers it. It’s just a series of clipped tones, but John recognizes the baritone of Lestrade’s frustrated voice on the other end of the line.

 

“I need to….” Sherlock starts, his eyes darting to Sam. John feels a swell of affection for him, it eases the tension in his check and knocking something free in his throat. He swallows around the loose sound, closes the distance between Sherlock and him.

 

“You need to go, it’s fine.”

 

Sherlock’s hands clench and unclenches, angry spots of red marring his white hands. John finds his free hand gripping Sherlock’s, stilling the motion.

 

“You’re a consulting detective, the only one in the world, I’m told,” the sides of his mouth tugs upward in a small, private expression, “when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult you.”

 

Sherlock’s hand turns in John’s until their palms are pressed together. John slides his fingers slightly until two of them find the pulse on Sherlock’s wrist, fees the steady beat of it against his skin.

One second.

Alive.

Alive.

Three.

Four.

 

Alive.

Five

Alive. Alive. Alive.

 

John feels his own pulse thrumming just below the surface as Sherlock steps in closers.

 

“Come to Baker Street,” Sherlock says, “later. If you can. I need you.”

 

The words settle somewhere deep behind John’s sternum, near his heart and make themselves at home there.

 

“Of course,” he swallows down the desperate edge in his voice and the word stumbles out tattered around the edges.

 

He feels Sherlock’s hand curl over the back of his neck as he pulls John closer, until John is pressed so close to his chest there’s not even a breath separating them.He shuts his eyes, without meaning too, against the assault of sensory input the Alphas’s closeness brings. His scent, the warmth of his breath ghosting across his skin. All these things John had thought he’d only ever know by memory.

 

John slides one hand up the slope of Sherlock’s arm to his shoulder, the other circles his waist and he feels the tension drain from Sherlock’s body, feels the brief sigh against the crown of his head. John feels guilty for not recognizing the uncertainty Sherlock’s been carrying. He’s worried about their place in his life and Sherlock must have worried about the very same thing.

 

 

Had he thought he would have to give up being a consulting detective, the very profession he created to stave off mental stagnation. What was it Sherlock had said once, how he abhorred the dull routine of existence, how he needed puzzles and mysteries and to have a mold catalogue to analyse, needed problems to solve, to keep his mind occupied in such a way that he didn’t need artificial stimulants. He’s been worried about it ever since Anderson’s little taunt.

 

“Sherlock,” John pulls away a little, slides his hands to cup his chin, finds his gaze, his eyes serious and the same undefined color as the sky outside. He drops his hands lower until they come to rest at the crook of his elbow. Firm enough that Sherlock will feel the contact, but not so hard that he’ll feel restrained.

 

“Sometime soon we’ll need to have a talk about…things,” John feels Sherlock’s muscles jump under his touch, and he gives his arm a reassuring squeeze. Sherlock’s gaze drops, following John’s movement.

 

“I like having the occasional ordinary lunch, but I don’t expect you to…change or be anything else or less than who you are,” John stifles a nervous laughter and dips his head until his forehead rests against Sherlock’s chest.

 

“I’m not really sure what I’m saying….. just that, you are it for me. I’m always going to be there for you, we both are. If you want us to be. That is. If you don’t then…”

 

It won’t be fine, not really. But John won’t forcefully insert them in Sherlock’s life. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to Bond with him. He might never have wanted children. Sherlock needs to know what he’s choosing.

 

“That’s alright.”

 

Minutes pass. John doesn’t move, doesn’t press himself any closer, suddenly afraid of trespassing. His whole body feels dull and distant, exhausted from the admissions, from putting all these thoughts and fears into words, and Sherlock is so warm.

 

Sherlock’s hand shifts to cradle John’s shoulders, pushing him back a few inches. Sherlock’s gaze is dark and fathomless and it’s so much he can’t even breathe.  John waits for whatever’s coming. Excuses or worse, acquittal, that what John’s offering isn’t what he wants. It’ll be his own bloody fault, either way.  

 

John feels the dip of his head as Sherlock tilts his head, he opens his mouth, not even sure what he’s going to say. It doesn’t matter, though because Sherlock’s hands move to tip  his head back and then curls over him, swiping his tongue past his parted lips.

 

The heat of it sears through these walls John’s constructed over these past few years. Rips right through it and everything he’s kept locked up come pouring through it and he presses up and close, and dear god- his hands fists in Sherlock’s shirt and John’s not sure if he’s hoping to keep Sherlock in place or to keep himself from falling and Sherlock never pulls his hands away. Sherlock’s own hands trails down John’s shoulders, glides across his arms, settles on John’s waist and slide carefully to the small of his back, where his fingertips finds the cold spots of skin above the edge of his trousers and under the shirt.

 

They part for air, even if John would have preferred to drown in Sherlock and never again know the taste of air that didn’t come from his Alpha. Sherlock wraps himself around John, hot and possessive,

 

“I promise I will be good to you,” Sherlock whispers to the top of his head, “as good as I can.”

 

  

The rain shows gives no sign of relenting and the time it takes John to run from Mycroft’s car, and across the road to Baker Street, is enough to leave him thoroughly soaked. He’s brushing the water off his jacket when he hears movement from Mrs. Hudson’s apartment. John pauses, cocks his head, suddenly suspicious. Mrs. Hudson is supposed to be on vacation, has the news of Sherlock’s return made her rush back to London, just like John did. He takes a step towards the door and picks up the sound of light steps against the floorboards. Defiantly not Mrs. Hudson. 

 

Just as John has decided to ask Sherlock who the occupant might be, the door to 221 A suddenly slides open and a blonde woman steps into the hallway. Her short hair is sleeked back and pinned in place by a small clips and she’s dressed in a light blue shirt a black skirt with a white apron. She’s carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies, a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves dangling over the rim.

 

“Hello,” John says, stepping aside for a moment to peer over the woman’s shoulder and into Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He sees Mrs. Hudson’s winter coat and scarf on a peg in the hallway, her boots lined neatly along the wall. The lights in the kitchen windows are on and there seems to be a bouquet of fresh flowers on the kitchen table, but aside from that it doesn’t seem like anything has changed.

 

“Good evening,” the stranger replies, shifting her bucket from right to her left, offering John her free hand to shake.

 

“My name’s Mary Morstan, I was just giving Mrs. Hudson’s flat a bit of cleaning, it’s always nice to come home to a freshly cleaned flat, don’t you think?”

 

“Oh,” John accepts her hand, her grip is surprisingly strong and firm, defiantly not the hands of an office worker. She smells of the pungent scent of soap and disinfectant, and it reminds him more of hospital cleaning supplies than what one would use for regular house cleaning.

 

“That’s awfully nice of you,” John adds, “are you a relative of Mrs. Hudson….” he goes through his catalogue of names and pictures Mrs. Hudson might have shown him of her family. He knows there’s a sister in France and some nieces and nephews, but he can’t place the blonde woman amongst any of them.

 

“No,” Mary shakes her head, “I’m just a friendly neighbor,” she jabs a thumb at the staircase, “I live on the third floor, apartment C?” She phrases it like a question and John finds himself nodding again. As far as he can remember, apartment C has always been empty though he doesn’t really understand why. Perhaps Sherlock and he didn’t make the easiest neighbors, what with the random gunshots, the nauseating odors from experiments and violin music at all times.

 

“Right, well, I’m John, John Watson. I…I used to live here, 221 B.”

 

“You’re one of the old tenants,” Mary says, shifting the bucket back to her right hand, “it’s very nice to meet you. Mrs. Hudson always said the vacancy in flat B was temporary.”

 

John forces a smile and jams his hands under his armpits. He doesn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Hudson, but he’s certain that if not for Sherlock’s, he would never have gone back to live in 221 B. The few moments he spent sorting through Sherlock’s things a couple of weeks ago had been difficult enough, he knows he could never have managed to live there.

 

John decides to move the topic away from any potential discussion of Sherlock and him. He can’t talk about it with a total stranger before he’s sorted it out with Sherlock.”Mrs. Hudson is returning soon, then, from her holiday?”

 

Mary nods and smiles, “day after tomorrow. She’s been kind enough to give me a decent rate on the flat and the least I can do is pop by and help her now and again. She’s got a bad hip you know, and she was shot a few years ago.” Her smile falters, her expression suddenly dark, “it’s not been easy for her to manage on her own.”

 

“Yes,” John presses his lips to a thin smile, “I know.” He feels guilty, not for the first time, for leaving without a word. Even if the circumstances was out of his control he should have called or sent a postcard or even asked Mycroft. He’d thought about her, once in a while, wondered how she was doing, if she was still sharing sand cakes with the next-door neighbor. But, irrevocably, any thoughts about Mrs. Hudson had led him to think about Sherlock and for such a long time the only thing he found down that trail of thoughts was pain and regret. It’s an excuse, and he knows that’s Sherlock’s, not the only one who owns Mrs. Hudson an apology.

 

“I’m sorry, “ John shakes his mind free of the uncomfortable thoughts, “but how do you know Mrs. Hudson?”

 

If Mary is offended by the question she hides it with another broad smile, “I met Mrs. Hudson during her convalesce, you see, I’m an I’m a nurse at The Princess Grace Hospital up at Nottingham Place. I had just moved to London and was still looking for a place to stay and we got talking and…”

 

She shrugs a little, letting John connect the rest of the dots to the story. John forces a small smile, glad Mrs. Hudson had somebody to talk to and drink tea with after being abandoned by John.

 

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” John takes a step towards the staircase, “but I’m…” he’s not sure how to finish the sentence. He’s not heading home, not really. The apartment hasn’t been his home for many years, even if the man currently occupying it is. “To see Sherlock,” he finishes.

 

“Right, well, I’m going the same way,” Mary says with a laugh, indicating to the stairs with her bucket. John steps aside and they do an awkward shuffle until Mary brushes past him, still smiling.

 

“It was nice to meet you,” she bobs her head, “good evening.”

 

“Yes, good evening,” John listens to her steps ascend the stairs until he hears the faint click of the door on the third-floor opening and closing. He doesn’t know why, but there’s almost something unerring about Mary Morstan, something he can’t put his finger on. He gives himself another few seconds to gather his thoughts, makes a vow to return in two days and look in on Mrs. Hudson. He’ll bring Sam, he thinks, Mrs. Hudson won’t manage to be too cross if Sam is with him.

 

“I met the new neighbor,” John announces as he shrugs off his wet jacket. He finds a peg for it, next to Sherlock’s Belstaff and Lestrade’s mac.

 

“I didn’t know there was a neighbor,” Lestrade says. He’s standing in a corner while Sherlock is lying on his back on the sofa, his fingers steepled under his chin, his eyes closed. It’s such a familiar tableau that it ignites something ridiculously warm and fuzzy in John that brings a smile to his lips.

 

“Third floor,” John explains, “her name is Mary Morstan. She’s a nurse.”

 

“Interesting,” Lestrade says politely and John shrugs away his attempt at small talk.

 

“What’s going on here?” he says instead, gesturing to Sherlock.

 

Lestrade echoes John’s shrug, “he said he needed to consult his Memory Castle or some such.”

 

John knows that there’s no interrupting Sherlock once he’s immersed himself in his Mind Palace and so he makes his way to the kitchen to see if there're supplies enough to scrounge up a cup of tea and asks Lestrade if he’d like one as well. Lestrade responds in the affirmative and John tries to navigate the mess in the kitchen.

 

It looks much like the first time he viewed the apartment, beakers, vials, bunsen burners, safety goggles in various states of an experiment. There're several plastic boxes and sheets of papers with Sherlock’s hurried handwriting. But he finds two mugs and rinses them free of dust, he puts on the kettle and finds a box of tea in its usual place in the cupboard. In the fridge, he finds milk.

 

He stares at it.

 

John is certain that never once, during their almost two years as flatmates, did Sherlock do anything as mundane as buy milk. But there it sits, innocently unaware of the extraordinary circumstances that brought it to 221 B. There are other things in the fridge to a random assortment of items, the kind you’d expect to find in an ordinary fridge. Strawberry jam, carrots, grapes, butter, apples.

 

All the things Sam ate for his lunch today.

 

He takes out the carton of milk, closes the fridge slowly, pours a small drop of milk into the tea, thinks about Sherlock’s whispered promise. If he wasn’t so lost in his Mind Palace, he’d give him a proper snog. They’ll be fine.

 

“Here you are,” John says, handing Lestrade his cup of tea.

 

“Thanks,” Lestrade lifts his cup as if he’s initiating a toast.

 

They stand side by side, studying the wall above the sofa and John feel Lestrade thrumming with hundreds of unasked questions. Where has John been? Why did he disappear without a word? Didn’t he know Lestrade would worry? Why didn’t he contact him to let him know he was alright?

 

These are all questions John knows he will have to answer, but he thinks that Sherlock should know them first because some of the answers are complicated and painful to recall. And  John isn’t quite ready to talk about Lestrade’s part in all this, how the detective inspector and Molly hid the truth from John during all these years.

 

John remembers Lestrade watching him at Sherlock’s funeral while Molly couldn’t look him in the eye. They must have seen it already then, how Sherlock’s death was affecting him. Still they sent him home alone to an empty flat and let him slowly sink.

 

“You’ve established a timeline,” John says, the vowels   thin in his throat.

 

Lestrade snaps his mouth shut, clears his throat.

 

“Yes,” Lestrade gives a small nod to the still figure on the sofa, “Sherlock filled in some gaps.”

 

A red string has been pulled horizontally across the wall with post-its notes marking the various times and days spanning from Friday to Monday morning when the victims were discovered.

 

John steps closer to read Sherlock’s handwriting. The coroner notes the time of death as occurring between 11 am and noon on Sunday.

 

“So, where were they from Friday to Sunday?”

 

“Well, we know Simon Whitewell’s movements quite well. He was scheduled for prison transfers departing at 10 am on Sunday, and arriving at the new location, Denton, four hours later, which is why he wasn’t reported missing. The driver of the prison transport has since disappeared.”

 

“Another fake police officer?” John asks with the faintest tint of bitterness in a voice. Lestrade hides his grimace behind the rim of his teacup.

 

“So Simon Whitwell arrived at the school after the two Alphas.”

 

“If we assume,” Sherlock drawls, opening one eye to peer right up at John, before swinging his legs over the side of the sofa and jumping up, “that the killing was an execution of Alphas, then we can conclude that the executioners-to-be assumed he was another Alpha slotted for the ceremony.”

 

“That’s a bit strange, isn’t it,” John argues, “if their agenda is to enhance focus on criminal Alphas, why would they execute one the police had already put away?”

 

“Perhaps they didn’t know he wasn’t a prisoner, just like they didn’t know he wasn’t an Alpha. He could have changed his clothes?” Lestrade asked, “is there any way to tell if a person is an Alpha or not.”

 

“Only if you’re an Omega,” Sherlock says, thankfully not looking at John. John fights the blush that spreads across his cheeks. He really doesn’t want to explain his complicated and unnecessary biology to Lestrade.

 

“Right. Simon could have been forced to change clothes on gunpoint, or his clothes could have been changed after he was drugged, though that seems unnecessarily cumbersome” Sherlock continues, “the details on that matter is not all that important.”

 

“So the prison driver hands Simon Whitewell over to the execution committee at the school, who marches him into the gym and hangs him along with the rest of their intended victims. When they discover that he isn’t an Alpha, they decide to not take credit for the murders,” Lestrade summarizes. He places his empty cup on the coffee table and tucks his hands at the small of his back. “They could have figured it out when they didn’t find his name on the list or in the registry.”

 

“And this means,” Sherlock says, “that the execution committee, as it were, must have trusted the driver implicitly. We should increase our efforts to track him down.”

 

“They must have been really vexed at whoever wanted Simon Whitewell to be part of their ceremony. He diminished the effect of their campaign” John says, “perhaps they killed him when they discovered they had been tricked. But why kill Simon Whitewell now, why make it so he’s part of an execution of Alphas?”

 

“Perhaps Simon Whitewell was included in some sort of attempt to ruin the effect of the execution,” Lestrade suggests, but Sherlock shakes his head.

 

“No, Simon Whitewell was killed to draw our attention….my attention, the signal that there’s a new game starting.”

 

Sherlock feels tension riding along John’s posture, and gives his arm a reassuring squeeze (physical contact has a calming effect on people suffering from anxiety or post-traumatic stress.) He calmly recounts the events that lead him to find a note in his hotel room. Olly, olly, oxen free. You can come out of hiding, the game has changed.  John frowns at Sherlock’s words makes as if to move away from him. But Sherlock’s not having it and he keeps his hand firmly on John.

 

“We’ll talk later,” he promises, feels the weight of the letter in his pocket.

 

“Alright,” John says quietly, turning his gaze back to the wall. His hands skim along Sherlock’s arm, returning the gesture of comfort.

 

Lestrade is looking decidedly uncomfortable, shuffling his feet and glancing about the room. A few seconds pass in silence before John breaks it.

 

“How did these people even meet?”

 

“Plenty of dark corners of the internet for like-minded individuals to find each other,” Lestrade mutters.

 

“Finding them is one thing,” John argues, “but they have to trust each other, trust that they’ll all stick to the plan. They  must even have trusted that whoever handed Simon Whitwell over to be executed. This seems like a rather complicated network and too risky a venture to embark on with somebody you met in a chatroom.”

 

Sherlock sends him a long, thoughtful look, stepping closer until his elbow is brushing against John’s and John feels tendrils of warmth sneak up his arm, rekindling the memory and the sensation of the kiss. John sighs and lets himself lean slightly into the physical contact with the Alpha, he avoids meeting Lestrade’s arched brow.

 

“What do you suggest?”  Sherlock asks, looping his hand into the crook of John’s elbow.

 

“Well, you’re looking for a group of people who trust each other, the kind of trust that develops over time, like….army platoon mates, childhood friends, family ties, classmates.”

 

“We should figure out why these two, of all the names on the list, why were Joseph Braitsworth and Andrew Nash chosen and how it all ties in with this campaign fronted by Edward Blithely and how Glen Reese got himself involved in it beyond his grave,” Sherlock says.

 

“Buggering hell,” Lestrade mutters, “I’ve tried to get the name of the person who paid for the add, but the newspaper is shouting about the European Court of Human Right’s declaration that the protection of their journalistic sources is a basic condition for a free press, never mind that this isn’t a journalist’s article, but a bloody add.”

 

Sherlock snorts.

 

“There’s something else that’s interesting,” John says, pleased when two set of detective's eyes turns to him. “Joseph Braithsworth and Andrew Nash were last seen on Friday, why did nobody report them missing? Where were they from Friday afternoon until they were killed some time on Sunday morning? The coroner’s report doesn’t mention traces of anything but the Stesdosil. These are two Alphas if they felt threatened, I mean- it would have been very difficult to keep them imprisoned.”

 

“So, you’re thinking they were someplace they didn’t feel threatened?” Lestrade looks skeptical, but he cannot deny that the massive gap in the timeline is bothering him.

 

“Exactly,” Sherlock exclaims, “or there’d be evidence of defensive wounds on their arms.”

 

“So where would they be where they didn’t feel threatened?” John asks, looking at the long list of names that Edward Blithely had published. Someone, Lestrade probably, has highlighted the names, Joseph Braithsworth and Andrew Nash, but Sherlock beats him to the question.

 

“And why were these two chosen in the first place? Of all the names on the list, the killers chose these two? There must be a personal connection between them and the killers.”

 

John’s finger leads the way down the list, stopping at Joseph Braithsworth’s name: 56-year-old. He lived all his life in London, along with his wife and his daughter. He was the owner and chairman of Sansburr Industries, a massive corporation that earned him a salary of seven figures.

The allegations against Joseph Braithsworth, for lack of a better word, is written in short, precise words that does nothing to alleviate the severity of the crimes he has been accused of. For several years, he’s been cutting corners to save costs, bribed councils to ignore his environmental fines and has refused compensation to injured workers.  Twenty years ago, the courts declared that Sansburr Industries were not to be held accountable that a large number of their employees were developing respiratory, kidney or brain failure, or mesothelioma, a rare cancer that attacks the lungs, chest cavity or abdomen, despite several professionals pointing out that this was most likely due to severe Asbestos exposure. Not only did he win the battle in court, but he was awarded millions in compensation. In addition, the author of the list indicates that Joseph Braithsworth had been enjoying several vacations to Thailand, without his wife and daughter. There is even a picture of him, a large, pasty man with his arm around a skinny youth.

 

Andrew Nash’s was a thirty-four-year-old newspaper vendor, originally from Scotland, but who had lived in London for the past ten years. He was a widower, with no known children. He had served several sentences for sexual misconduct, aggravated assault, and property damage. According to Nash's neighbors, Isidora and Andrew Nash's marriage had not been a happy one. Married at eighteen, their life together were nothing more than one long quarrel. Ten years ago Isidora hung herself in the couples' apartment. The death was quickly ruled as a suicide."

 

“I read up on the Nash case,” Lestrade says, “There was nothing to suggest that her death wasn't self-inflicted, it was an obvious suicide.”

 

Sherlock clasps his hands at the small of his back, canting his head a little as he regards the notes on the wall, “how did the author, or authors, of the list, come to know of these affairs?”

 

“If these two Alphas were important to the killers, then we should look at who was affected by their crimes,” John suggests, surpassing the urge to curb his ridiculous grin as he suddenly feels the heat from Sherlock’s hand against his lower back.

 

“Hundreds of people were affected by Joseph Braithworth’s crimes,” Sherlock says, “in Nash’s case, the only victim was his wife.”

 

“That’s not necessarily true,” John interjects, “his wife’s family would be victims of Andrew Nash’s crimes. Her father, mother, siblings.”

 

“Oh, of course!”

 

Sherlock moves over to their living room table, covered by a mound of papers, books and stacked high with takeaway cartons and paper cups. John doesn’t understand how anybody could find anybody in such a disorganized pile of debris, but as always there is a method to Sherlock’s madness and he emerges with a thin folder in his hand.

 

“Isidore Nash, formerly Isidora Oblak, her parents are originally from Slovenia, but she was born in the United Kingdom. Her father passed when she was fifteen and she is survived by her mother, three older brothers, and one sister.”

 

“Let’s not forget friends, nieces, possible grandparents, uncles, lovers.”

 

“Right,” Sherlock says, “alibis should discount a lot of possible suspects.” Sherlock moves about the flat, his gaze locked on the file, his free hand leading the way as he advances across the room. John cannot help but to think that Sherlock looks more in is element now than when he sat awkwardly at their lunch table. John shifts his weight from one foot to the other hopes to ease the sudden tension in his joints.

 

Lestrade, however, does not look convinced, “it’s an awfully slim thread,” he confesses, “and we don’t yet know if any of it is true. You said so yourself, Sherlock, it’s a ruse to get people riled up.”

 

“I don’t care about the rest,” Sherlock declares with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I care about these two.”

 

“All right,” Lestrade concedes, his shoulders slumping in defeat, “how did the author of the list know about these supposed crimes?”

 

Sherlock stops and John sees some of the enthusiasm drains from him. It lasts for only a second, long enough for only John to see, before Sherlock’s engaged again with the new problems at hand.

 

“Inside information? No. These two Alphas led vastly different lives, moved in different circles and had nothing in common and nothing that would suggest that their families had anything in common-”

 

“Yes they did,” John reminds him gently, “they were both Alphas.”

 

Sherlock looks up, blinks as if somebody has suddenly flooded the apartment in bright light. He stares at John, and John can positively see the flash of deduction leading him straight to the answer, that for the first time in a long time, John had reached first.

 

“Doctor Fenway.”

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but here is a long chapter for you guys to sink your teeth into.
> 
> I am not sure if I should apologise for the amount of fluff, feels or angst in this chapter, but you are forewarned. Also, there are otters.
> 
> As always, all my thanks to everybody who gives me their support and encouragement, and especially my Beta CowMow, who is an absolute corker.

Contains quotes from: Arthur Conan Doyle´s _The Sign of Four_ and BBC Sherlock.

 

**Chapter fourteen.**

 

“What?” Lestrade says, struggling to catch up with the silent conversation John and Sherlock are sharing through their locked gaze.

 

“I should have seen the connection immediately,” Sherlock finally scoffs. The unspoken _I was distracted_ , _occupied with other things_ haunts the end of the sentence and makes something sour twist in John’s stomach.

 

“It’s a pretty obscure connection,” Lestrade says then, and John wonders if he’s trying to placate Sherlock. “Doctor Fenway was hardly the only physician in England with knowledge about… biology.”

 

John pursed his lips, deep in thought. Not too long ago, doctor Fenway was a very important person in his life. John still remembers the first time he stood in Fenway’s office, listening as Fenway explained the particulars of his biology, and what he could expect to suffer through in the following years. Fenway had taught John how to live his life the way he wanted, and had helped him to hide from Alphas. He had prescribed the necessary medication that protected him from experiencing embarrassing and painful heats. Throughout the years, Fenway had kept in touch with John, had helped him with practical advice and listened to him, only to write it all down in order to publish it for the world to enjoy.

 

John has to admit that his feelings for doctor Fenway are still conflicted, even knowing how Fenway had betrayed him. He knew about Doctor Fenway’s involvement with dangerous and illegal experiments. He had even encouraged Jacob to use London as his personal laboratory. People had suffered. People had died; all for the sake of Fenway´s search for medical fame. But he had also helped John, Glen Reese, and countless other Alphas and Omegas who struggled with their biological heritage.

 

“Are you suggesting that the killers somehow met through Doctor Fenway?” Lestrade asks.

 

“Doctor Fenway was a specialist in his field, and-” John offers, drawing the eyes of both men to him, “Let’s not forget that Doctor Fenway conducted highly illegal medical and social experiments. He would have been drawn to a man like Nash, who must have been referred to him after sitting out his sentences of sexual misconduct. Joseph Braitworth was a prolific character; it’s possible that he passed through Doctor Fenway’s office at some point in his life. I imagine that Doctor Fenway and Jacob must have found these Alphas… immensely fascinating.”

 

“Hang on,” Lestrade says, “does that mean you think there’s a gang of murderous Alphas out there?” He scratches the bridge of his nose, lost in thought for a moment, and John’s eyes find Sherlock’s across the room. 

 

Does this mean that they still aren’t done with Moriarty’s game or is this a coincidence?

 

“And what about this whole theory of it being some kind of execution? How does that work? Is this some kind of… revenge… or territorial dispute?” Lestrade asks, oblivious to John and Sherlock’s worries.

 

No. No coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy.

 

“Don’t be absurd. When an Alpha is involved in a murder, it is never as neat as what we saw in the primary school,” Sherlock replies, flapping his hand dismissively at the idea.

 

John remembers sitting at his kitchen table, seeing his father’s disgust at the vicious murders.

 

“Alphas do not work well with other Alphas. We are far too mistrusting for that. We’d fight for dominance. It’s highly unlikely that two Alphas should cooperate in such an elaborate venture that includes going through the effort of moving Simon Whitewell from his prison… No, the connection between our victims might very well be doctor Fenway, but they might be Omegas,” Sherlock says.

 

The almost admiring quality of Sherlock’s voice surprises John. Omegas? He doubts Sherlock has ever said the word with anything but disdain in his tone. Curiously, John tilts his head at Sherlock, but the detective turns his back to John, sorting through a couple of files on the coffee table. They wait for Sherlock to elaborate on his idea, knowing he can never resist an occasion to flaunt the path to his brilliant conclusion, but suddenly Sherlock seems to be hesitating.

 

“After Moriarty sent you down to Mrs. Hudson….” Sherlock starts.

 

John’s breath catches in his throat and he sees Lestrade’s mouth open and close, as if he wants to ask a question but thinks better of interrupting Sherlock.

 

Sherlock folds the hands at the small of his back, wandering over to the window with the pretence of studying the street, when in reality he is avoiding John’s eyes. What is he trying to shield from John? The absence of remorse and regret? John remembers all too well his initial reaction, the shock of seeing Sherlock alive on the television and then standing in front of John in this very room like three years had not passed between them. He had reacted poorly, hadn´t even given Sherlock the chance to explain. Is Sherlock worried that John will run away again? Suddenly he wants to touch Sherlock, to smooth out the taunt lines in his back and assure him that he’s not going anywhere. Worried that his legs won’t manage the short distance across the room, John takes a seat on the sofa, gripping the armrest tightly.

 

John’s gone over the conversation between Sherlock and Moriarty hundreds of times. Of course he has. Something Moriarty said to Sherlock put him on that roof made him jump-

 

Fake his suicide, he corrects himself, and go into hiding.

 

“For most of their lives, Moriarty and Fenway have been playing “Simon Says,” with Alphas. Moriarty was manipulating them into doing his bidding. Killing people, mostly, it seems. He said he liked to watch them all compete for him. Later, the game evolved, became more complex, involved more people in strategic positions in the government, the police, the banking industry, the judicial system. It started to involve other Omegas too, but the premise of the game was still the same, pull their strings, and watch them dance.”

 

 

“That was the network you were working to dismantle,” Lestrade murmurs, “I never saw the entire picture, just…passed along the information.”

 

Sherlock nods and continues, “unfortunately, when their crimes were uncovered and they were removed from their position of authority, the banks collapsed like a poorly built house of cards.”

 

“But why-” John tries to mask the anguish in his voice, afraid he’s not doing a good job, because the muscles on Sherlock’s back jump and flex under his shirt, while Lestrade cannot look at him. “Why did you… leave?”

 

“There were threats,” Sherlock says so calmly that you’d think it was an everyday occurrence. And yes, they do live a dangerous life, and John and Sam have spent the past three years with bodyguards, but Sherlock has never shied away from danger before. It’s been the opposite. So many times Sherlock had shown such a reckless disregard for his own safety that John had genuinely feared for his life.

 

“Against you, of course,” Sherlock elaborates. “And against Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Killing you would lose its purpose if I was no longer around to witness it.”

 

The room goes silent as if all the air is sucked right out of it. John slowly raises his head from where it’s resting on his hand. Sherlock is still standing by the window, one hand clasped around his other wrist, his knuckles white and the delicate skin on his wrist blossoming red. John wants to touch him so desperately that the effort to remain still is almost painful.

 

Lestrade awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearing his throat several times before finding his voice. “So, if we cross-reference the name of Doctor Fenway’s patience files with our victims, we might be able to find a connection?”

 

“Sadly, we won’t be able to find any information in Fenway’s files,” Sherlock says, “he used biblical pseudonyms for all his patient files. But there must have been an index system somehow or he’d never be able to keep track of all his patients…”

 

Lestrade sees where Sherlock’s mind is going, and turns to John, “what happens to a doctor’s medical files when he dies?”

 

“Well, according to the law they are supposed to be kept in storage for seven years before you are allowed to destroy them,” John says. He wipes his clammy palms against his trousers and remains seated. He doesn’t quite trust his leg to carry his weight just yet. “I suppose his lawyer, or whoever was responsible for his estate, might be in possession of them.”

 

“Wouldn’t they have been transferred to that other specialist, like…that Asian one?”

 

“Doctor Mizuno? I doubt it. Since it is impossible to identify any of the patients on the records, they are worthless to any doctors who might have inherited his practice.”

 

“We should ask Allen Farren,” Sherlock declares. When Lestrade and John stare at him blankly, he groans in frustration and turns with a dramatic swoop of his arm. He strides over to the dining table and rummages through its impossible filing system until he finds what he’s looking for. “Fenway’s younger lover, his research assistant. Even if he did not know how to decipher Fenway’s filing system, he might know how Fenway did.”

 

Lestrade nods. He reaches for his mobile phone and taps out a text to Donovan. “We’ll pick him up tomorrow,” Lestrade says. He stifles a yawn and shoves his hands into his pockets afterwards. “It’s been a productive evening, but I’d best be off, Molly’s patience only goes so far.”

 

“Sure,” John says with a pleasant nod, while Sherlock just waves his hand in a dismissive gesture, his attention now attuned to the report in his hand.

 

Lestrade gives John a tight smile as he buttons up his coat against the winter air. He hovers for a moment in the doorway, as if he’s uncertain if it’s safe to leave Sherlock and John unsupervised. His phone chimes again, and with a quick “good night,” Lestrade bids them farewell.

 

John pushes himself out of the sofa, gathers their teacups, plates, the cutlery and a couple of take-away boxes that smell so terribly that he doesn’t even dare to open them to contemplate the state of their content. He carries it into the kitchen, dumps the cartons into the bin and puts the dishes in the sink and hears his mother’s voice, _well if you carried them this far, you might as well wash them_ , and before he realizes it, he’s tidying the kitchen.

 

So many things have happened these past few days that the sudden rush back to status quo, to what passes for normal in Baker Street, makes John realize that he’s not had time to give any thought to the part Lestrade and Molly played in Sherlock’s deception.

 

It’s easier to understand now why Sherlock felt he had to fake his death. It is far more difficult to comprehend why only Molly and Lestrade had been included in the plot.

 

Well, Molly’s part he understands. Sherlock would have needed somebody he trusted to mock up an autopsy report and to procure a fake weight for the coffin. And Lestrade, allright, somebody had needed to write the police report and the following inquest. Sherlock had also needed somebody to collect his reports and arrest the participants of Moriarty’s game.

 

But why hadn’t he trusted Mycroft to do just that? Had Sherlock not trusted him to keep his secret from John? Or had he believed that any action Mycroft took would make Moriarty suspect that Sherlock was still alive?

 

Christ, why hadn’t he trusted John? He has had years of experience of living with secrets. He had even managed to hide that he was an Omega from the world’s greatest detective. He had probably been less successful in hiding his affection for said detective, but he hardly wore his heart on his sleeve for the world to see, did he?

 

Was Sherlock afraid that John would act too amorous in some way and give up the ruse to Moriarty? Christ, he hadn’t even needed to say anything. If he’d Bonded with him, John would have known that Sherlock wasn’t really dead and that knowledge… it would have been enough. He wouldn’t have needed to take Sam to visit a black tombstone and try and explain to a toddler the concept of death.

 

For a second it feels like he might throw up and he grips the edge of the sink to keep himself upright. Grey mist swirls in front of his eyes and he sucks in air in deep breaths, turns the tap on and lets the water run ice cold through his fingers before he splashes it against his face.

 

It comes out barely audible, a mere breath. “ _John_.”

 

Sherlock hesitates in the doorway for a second, and then he walks slowly across the kitchen, standing next to John. Not quite touching.

 

John sighs, dragging his hand across his face to wipe away the emotions there, and he dips his head so that Sherlock doesn’t see his eyes. But, he’s an idiot to think he can hide anything from Sherlock Holmes. He feels Sherlock’s hand on the back of his neck, soft and gentle, the tips of his fingers almost electric against the fine strands of hair at the nape of his neck. John takes a deep, shuddering breath, wishing he didn’t feel so old, worn out, empty. He closes his eyes, not sure if the Alpha is pulling him close, or if John half goes, half stumbles into the embrace on his own accord, but he presses himself against the lean body, his arms around the bony shoulders, his ear pressed against his chest so he can hear the steady thrum of Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock’s hands linger against his neck for a moment, before it slides to the back of his head, cradling John against him even as his other hand circles around his waist.

 

“I told you,” is all Sherlock whispers. John searches his mind for half-remembered questions and feels his frown smoothed away under Sherlock’s fingertips. John has to push himself up on his toe and kisses him lightly, and then it’s like they’ve done this a hundred times before, even though the real amount can be counted on one hand. Sherlock’s hands are warm against this cheeks, and the intimate feel of his mouth, his tongue sliding into John’s mouth, makes John sway forward in a rush of relief until Sherlock’s back collides with the edge of the counter. John’s fingers skim along Sherlock’s arm, clutching at his elbows to keep him in place even as the Alpha fights for dominance in the kiss. Sherlock’s right hand fists the shirt in the middle of John’s back, his breath fast and hot against John’s lips.

 

John abandons Sherlock’s elbows, firm fingers dragging against the fine fabric under his hands, and John moves his lips away from Sherlock’s mouth to seek the hot pulse at the base of his throat. Sherlock groans, low in his throat, and uses his leverage to push them away from the kitchen counter, his hand cradling John’s chin and guiding his mouth back to his. Sherlock pulls him and John goes easily, their legs meshing and one hand finding its way to the edge of Sherlock’s shirt, dips low, drags the edge of his shirt up, the tips of his finger teasing every inch of skin uncovered. He feels Sherlock’s stomach muscles jump under his hand, his moan loud this time as he sucks at John’s tongue. John’s heart is beating wildly in his chest, and desperately he presses his pelvis against Sherlock’s hips, against his thigh, desperate for friction.  Sherlock twists them around again, chasing John’s lips, his hand splayed against his back, dipping lower and lower, towards the swell of John’s bum.

 

Then Sherlock’s knee suddenly bumps against the table. He doesn’t quite manage to stop the hiss of pain and John pulls back just enough so he can see his face. His lips are swollen and moist, his eyes impossibly wide and wretched, like he’s coming off a high. John slides his hands along the centre of a muscled chest in front of him, his nose pressing against Sherlock’s sternum, and Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s, his breath escaping in a moist sigh across his skin.

 

“Stay,” Sherlock asks in a whisper, his hands curling possessively over John’s shoulders.

 

“I can’t,” John says, but hurries to adds, when he feels Sherlock go cold against him, “it’s Sam. I can’t suddenly not be there when he wakes up and we have plans for tomorrow morning. You… should come with us. London Zoo.”

 

Sherlock relaxes against him and John feels a sigh across the crown of his head, followed by a kiss on his forehead.

 

“Come home to Baker Street,” Sherlock whispers to John’s hair, “both of you.”

 

John closes his eyes and slides his hand to Sherlock’s, finds his fingers and squeezes them. There could only be one reply to that, couldn’t it? “All right.”

 

 

 

 

Sam is always eager for a trip outside, even if it’s just down the road to the store to grab some milk. This morning he insists on pulling on his boots before they eat breakfast and is terribly pleased with himself when he doesn’t need John’s help to sort left from right.  John packs the stroller with all the necessities and emergency equipment one might need for an excursion with a toddler.  Sam’s an active participant in the process and fills his small, yellow rucksack with a couple of building blocks, a red and blue car, four puzzle pieces and a block of wood shaped and coloured to look like an ice-cream.

 

Unfortunately, Sam’s aversion to car seats also extends to being strapped into the stroller and by the time they are down on the sidewalk, John can see the telltale signs of a tantrum growing at the edge of Sam’s unhappy mouth.

 

 _Don’t want to_ , Sam signs.

 

 _Only until we get to the zoo,_ John replies, _it’s a bit of a walk_.

 

Sam narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t really trust John’s estimation of the distance between the apartment and the London Zoo.

 

 _No!_ He signs quite vehemently, pointing an accusatory finger at the stroller. _Don’t want to_.

 

 _We’ll be late_ \- John starts; only to be interrupted by Sam’s glare, far too sharp for a toddler.

 

 _No_.

 

John smiles, _if we hurry, we’ll get to see the otters getting their lunch_. It’s still early and they have plenty of time, but John knows his son: there will be several kinds of delays on the way.

 

 _Sherlock will be there_ , _too_ , John adds.

 

 _Otters?_ Sam asks, stealing a glance at the stroller.

 

John can see his son’s dwindling resistance.

 

A few weeks ago they had been looking through a picture book together and practicing the signs for animals. Of all the animals, Sam had been most interested in the otters, and he spent the following days asking questions about what they ate, how long were their tails, where did they come from and if one might come to visit him? John had been saved from having to secretly Google the answers on his phone by Mycroft’s calm explanations, that the otters lived in rivers and swamps, that their tail could be up to 35cms long, and that their primary diet consisted of fish. On Sam’s last question, he’d been suspiciously tight-lipped and John wondered, not for the first time, if Sam might not have wrapped the most powerful man in Britain around his little finger.

 

 _Otters eat fish_ , Sam responds as he contemplates the stroller.

 

 _Yes_ , John replies, _who knows when your uncle Mycroft had the occasion to learn so much about otters?_

 

 _They eat with fingers_ , Sam adds, wiggling his own as if to demonstrate.

 

 _And we’ll miss it if we don’t hurry_ , John says, gesturing to the stroller. Sam sighs the sigh of the greatly suffering, making it clear to John that he’s being enormously inconvenienced and that he should consider himself grateful for Sam’s generosity.

 

He climbs into the stroller and spends the entire walk to the zoo telling his canine plushie about otters, zebras, lions and tigers, their ever-present bodyguard only a few steps behind them. It’s not Hector this time, but a broad-shouldered fellow who had introduced himself as Hermes. Sometimes John wonders if it’s always going to be like this, going on an outing, pretending to be a normal family, a bodyguard their permanent shadow. Sometimes he thinks Mycroft is being a little overprotective and that not even Prince George lives under this much security. But he doesn’t question it. He won’t take any chances.

 

As they are standing in the queue for their tickets, John’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

 

*You shouldn’t bring Sam to the Yard. The sheer stupidity of its officers will hinder his mental development. SH*

 

John can’t suppress his smile and quickly types out a reply. *What’s going on?*

 

They are through the line and watching the monkeys by the time John gets a reply.

 

*Lestrade had some of his officers bring Allen Farren in for questioning. SH*

 

*Which was a ridiculous move because it gave him time to call his attorney. SH*

 

*Should have ambushed him at his flat, like I suggested. SH*

 

Sam’s squirming in his seat, arms extended towards the large cage of the monkey exhibit, making a frustrated, impatient whine.

 

*Will you still be at the exhibit at 12.30? SH*

 

 _Just a second_ , John signs, quickly tapping out a response to Sherlock, before he pockets his phone. He frees Sam from the harness and hurries after him as the toddler clamours to get as close to the enclosure as possible. He grips the fence and cranes his neck to stare at the pair of black and white animals high up in their cage.

 

 _Look_ , he signs, grabbing John’s arm and holding him close, _Look!_

 

 _I see them,_ John acknowledges, placing a hand carefully on his son’s head, feeling the child vibrating with excitement. 

 

 _He’s picking his friend’s head,_ Sam observes and John gently explains that it’s called grooming. Sam watches as if enthralled by the sight, his tiny hand clutching John’s and his legs shuffling an exuberant beat against the pavement.

 

John wonders what Sherlock was like at this age. Had he been full of gleeful wonder or would he have found the zoo boring? He’d often scoff at the tediousness of what others would consider peaceful and quiet.

 

John remembers a particular long drought between cases, when Sherlock had run out of interesting experiments and had spent an entire day slouching on the couch, until he grabbed John by the shoulder and cried that his mind rebels at stagnation. That he needs problems, the most obscure cryptogram or the most intricate analysis. That he abhors the dull routine of existence and that his mind craves for mental exaltation, and that is why he had created his profession.

 

Suddenly he’s got this image of a young Sherlock, tall and gangly for his age, examine the world and the way people relate to each other with academic detachment and concluding that their actions were counterintuitive, driven by foolish emotions like hate, and jealousy of lust and love and that they were stupid.

 

How old was Sherlock when he concluded that the world was uninteresting? When had he started rebelling against boundaries in chase of his next high?

 

Would Sam ever reach the same conclusion? What was he going to do then?

 

John is yanked out of his contemplation by Sam’s eager grip on his hand as he pulls John across the path to point at a rather sinister-looking bird.

 

 _A large bird_ , Sam signs, looking at John for confirmation.  John walks over to the sign, scanning it for information on the animal in the cage.

 

 _He’s spreading his wings to tan himself_ , John says. Sam returns his attention to the bird, standing absolutely still as he drinks in the sight of it.

 

 _How? What does it eat? Fish?_ Sam looks at John, who huffs a smile and returns to search for the answer to Sam’s questions until he can answer them all to his son’s satisfaction.

 

There are plenty of kids about, most of them school children on an excursion, but also families enjoying a day off work. The exhibits enrapture Sam, though whenever his contemplation of the animal is interrupted by the arrival of a gaggle of children, he hurries to John’s side with a frightened expression. The feeling of Sam’s anxious grip makes John realize that he needs to research suitable pre-schools and that maybe he needs to revisit the information on cochlear implants. They aren’t going to be uprooted every year by Mycroft’s concern, it is time to settle and get back to life. At Baker Street. Though, probably with fewer nights spent chasing down dangerous criminals and less body parts in the fridge.

 

They walk around the winding path, making their way through a tunnel to look at various animals, and stopping to admire the pygmy hippo. They enjoy Mrs. Kettle’s delicious packed lunches in the large, cool stable that houses the giraffes. It’s one of those rare, bright, days in London that is deceptively warm. Sam has already pulled off his hat twice and when he tries to feed it to the giraffes, John takes pity on him and sticks it into Sam’s backpack.

 

By the time they reach the otters' pond to watch the feeding, there is a large crowd of excited kids pressing their hands and noses against the glass while their parents half-heartedly caution them to be careful. Sam goes stock still at the sight of the crowd and then turns to John, arms extended, his eyes large and worried. John recognizes Sam’s anguish when he’s torn between something he really wants and the obstacle that’s keeping him from reaching it.

 

Sam fists his hands in collar of John’s coat, his body taunt in John’s arm, and for a moment John worries that his apprehension for the teeming crowd of children is going to quench his excitement for the otters. They stand at the far edge of the group, strollers, older kids and parents blocking their view.

 

At the edge of the crowd is Sherlock, seeming a bit out of place among the happy families, until he sees them and he smiles, small and almost uncertain.

 

 _Hello, Sam, John_ , he signs. Sam frowns at him for a second, but then he replies _, otters have lunch_ , he points in the direction of the pond.

 

 _It will be a shame to miss it,_ Sherlock replies. John feels Sam wriggling against his chest, a finger hooked into the corner of his mouth, his eyes pleading.

 

 _Let’s get you higher_ , Sherlock says, extending his arms to Sam. Sam stares at him for a long while, his hands clenching and unclenching against John’s jacket. Then, he gets this look of sheer determination, of the kind of stubborn streak that he can only have inherited from Sherlock.

 

With such fluidity and grace, as if he’s done this hundreds of times before, Sherlock swings Sam up and around until he’s got him securely parked on his shoulders, his hands holding Sam’s legs gently but firmly in place. Sam automatically grabs hold of Sherlock’s curls. He giggles with delight at this new perspective on the world.

 

The otters’ internal clock has clearly alerted them to the approaching feeding time, and they line up along the water’s edge with high-pitched squeaks, that sounds a bit like somebody squeezing a dog toy. Sherlock strides through the crowd like a man on a mission and the tiny crowd parts like the Red Sea. The otters’ squeals grow in volume and the crowd ooh’s and aww’s.  John sees Sam holding himself steady with one hand, using the free one to point at the animals before sticking it in his mouth. John rubs his moist eyes with the back of his hand before stuffing his hands in his pocket, letting himself enjoy the sight.

 

 

Despite his best efforts to keep his eyes open, Sam falls asleep as soon as John’s managed to coax him back into the stroller. His plushie is tucked under his chin in Sam’s death grip and John adjusts the stroller’s back to allow his son a more comfortable nap. They walk towards the exit in silence. It’s a thirty-minute stroll through Regent’s Park to Baker Street and the sun is sharp enough that John’s squinting against its glare. Sherlock’s silently lost in some thoughts as he slows his long stride to match John’s, their arms occasionally brushing, their hands never far apart.

 

They’ve just passed York Street when John sees her, standing with the fake nonchalance of somebody who’s trying to appear inconspicuous and failing. When she sees them, she straightens her posture and takes a step onto the street, not as if to block their path, but enough so that John can’t ignore her.

 

“Doctor Watson.” Her blonde hair is held away from her grey eyes with a blue clip and she’s wearing a blue coat trimmed with a thick black fur which makes her heart-shaped face seem ridiculously small. John tightens his grip on the handles, moving a little so he’s standing protectively next to the stroller. Sherlock narrows his eyes and Hermes arches a brow, his hand sliding ever so carefully towards his shoulder holster, his gaze locked on John, waiting for his signal.

 

“I’ll talk to her,” John mutters while both Sherlock and the bodyguard move to stand next to Sam. “Let’s see what she wants.”

 

“Alexander Lee Finkle,” John says by way of greeting, and the woman replies with just the slightest twitch of her lips. She cranes her neck, peers over her shoulder at the strange trio, Sam asleep in his stroller and Hermes and Sherlock standing guard. When she meets John’s gaze again, he sees the obvious curiosity in her eyes. He doesn’t offer any explanations, but widens his postures and folds his arms over his chest. It’s an aggressive, defensive posture, but even with Mycroft’s hired hitman and Sherlock Holmes standing by, John feels uneasy.

 

Doctor Alexander Lee Finkle had been Glen Reese’s attorney and, later on, primary physician. She has spent a good deal of energy in attempting to pin part of the motivation and blame of Glen Reese’s crime on John. She hadn’t been very successful, after all she found herself in a duel with one of Mycroft’s pin-striped-suited men. But John cannot forget the way she had worn him down him in court.

 

These days, Finkle is known for her involvement in a movement called True Britain, founded in the wake of the corruption and banking scandal. It had always been a mediocre organization that thrived on the Internet, but which was often ridiculed in academic circles. John cannot help but think that they might be seeing a steep increase in popularity these days. John clenches his hands.

 

“How did you-” John asks quietly.

 

Alexander shrugs, “I saw on the television that your Alpha had returned and I knew you’d appear here eventually. Though, I didn’t think you’d be….”

 

John spares a brief moment to worry about Mycroft’s lax in security if they hadn’t picked up on Alexander lurking around Baker Street, she’s hardly an inconspicuous figure.

 

“What do you want?” John asks. A couple of elderly ladies pass by, stopping a moment to coo at Sam, before Sherlock’s sharp glare propels them forward, huffing and scoffing indignantly.

 

Alexander takes another step towards them, her gaze darting from Sam to John and then to Sherlock. John can positively hear the cogs in her brain churn through the assessment of Sam’s hair, the shape of his ears and his nose. He recognizes the moment she’s reaches the right conclusion, her mouth forming a little O and her eyes growing wide.

 

“What do you want?” John repeats, his voice low and tight, stepping so that he’s blocking her view. Alexander stops, her hands coming up between them like she´s trying to protect herself.

 

“I wonder if I might have a moment of your time,” she says, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile. It’s an awful, stilted attempt at nonchalance and it makes John hesitate. There are plenty of people on the street, people commuting to and from their jobs, couples holding hands, kids returning home from school, and Hermes’ fingers are seconds away from his gun. There’s really no reason for him to worry about this woman.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I…” The change in her demeanour is so sudden and brief that John almost misses it. Her eyes go as wide as saucers and she hurries forward, her gaze quickly darting from Hermes and Sherlock to the street behind him, scanning over the buildings on the opposite side of the road. To John. John sees it then, the slight tremor in her hand as she clutches her purse. She’s afraid, John realizes, and glances over his shoulder, wondering what she’s seen that has spooked her. One of Mycroft’s cars, perhaps? Or something else. He doesn’t have time to finish his contemplation, because Alexander’s hands are on him, soft but insistent.

 

“Maybe we could speak somewhere….,” she settles on though John half suspects she wanted to say “somewhere safe.” Is it Hermes who’s making her uneasy?

 

“What about?” John glances over his shoulder again. Sam is still peacefully asleep, his head lolling to the side, his hand clutching his toy. Sherlock frowns, but John gives him a reassuring smile.

 

Alexander Lee Finkle takes a deep breath as if she needs to gather her courage before she closes the last few inches between them standing so close to John that he can taste the alcohol on her breath as she whispers, “It’s about the triple homicide.”

 

John feels a sudden hammering in his chest and jerks to look at her and sees the unease reflected in her sharp, grey eyes.

 

“The-”

 

She won’t allow him to finish his question. “You can bring your Alpha detective,” she murmurs. Her eyes scan the surroundings again, lingering for a moment on the black door to 221. “Meet me here,” she says, stuffing a piece of paper into his hands. Then she pulls back, tugs the collar of her coat up against the wind and strides hurriedly down the street.

 

John watches her hurry away, her back stiff and her heels a sharp staccato against the pavement. He unfolds the piece of paper.

 

The location and the time are written in flowing handwriting.

 

“Everything alright, doctor?” Hermes asks. John stuffs the note into his pocket, combing a hand over his hair. He can’t shake off the feeling that he’s just played a scene of a terrible clichéd spy movie. A clandestine evening meeting at a train station, exchanging whispered secrets. The drama will certainly appeal to Sherlock.

 

“Yeah, just…strange,” John rubs the back of his neck, “Or, on par for us, I guess.” He hands the note to Sherlock.

 

“She said she had information about the murders,” John explains, “but wants to meet us on her terms.”

 

“Fascinating,” Sherlock muses.

 

“They’ve put a tail on her,” Hermes nods his head down the road at Alexander’s missing figure.

 

“Right,” John says though he’s fairly certain that Lee Finkle won’t reveal anything until the meeting.

 

 

In the corridor of 221, they interrupt what appears to be a standoff. Mrs. Hudson is there, seizing up the tall and slim figure of Mrs. Kettle who’s apparently just descended from the stairs, a basket on her arms and a shawl on her head, making it seems as though she’s an extra in an episode of _Heartbeat._

 

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Kettle.” John says, navigating the stroller into a corner off the side of the stairs.

 

“Doctor,” Mrs. Kettle replies crisply, “almost everything should be in order and there’s a dinner for you to heat up in the fridge. I will return this evening to watch Sam while you go off on your meeting.”

 

John doesn’t even want to contemplate how Mrs. Kettle could possibly have gotten that information so quickly.

 

“Thank you,” John answers, and then turns to Mrs. Hudson who is barely able to contain her curiosity behind proper British manners.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, you are looking well. Have you two been introduced?”

 

She is looking well, John is glad to see. She’s regained most of the weight she lost during her infirmity, there’s a healthy glow to her cheeks, put there by time spent in the sun and good food. Her hair has been recently dyed and cut and she’s wearing a maroon dress with a matching scarf.

 

“We were just getting acquainted,” Mrs. Kettle says and then turns to Mrs. Hudson, “I am Edith Kettle, the housekeeper.”

 

Some strange expression passes across Mrs. Hudson’s face before she smiles, thin and taut. “Nice to meet you, I’m Martha Hudson, the landlady.”

 

John suddenly gets the distinct feeling that he’s witnessing some sort of strange assessment of an old family pet being introduced to its younger counterpart. Mary Morstan who appears in Mrs. Hudson’s doorway saves John from any awkward intervention. She’s dressed in a red coat and the wind has picked apart what was once a neat hairdo.

 

“Your shopping is all settled, Mrs. Hudson,” she says, her smile brightening when she sees John.

 

“Hello, been on a stroll?” She nods her head and John suddenly realizes that he’s holding Sam’s yellow backpack in his hands.

 

“Oh, yes, just-” the rest of her sentence is cut short when Sherlock squeezes inside, cradling a sleeping Sam against his shoulder. The entire room turns to him. Mrs. Hudson isn’t able to bury her surprise fast enough to prevent it from reaching her face.

 

“Sherlock!” She breathes, instinctively mindful of the sleeping child “Whose child is that?”

 

Mrs. Kettle seems to think that this is an excellent opportunity to avoid what might possibly dissolve into one of those emotional scenes that the British are keen to avoid, and with polite bob of her head, bids her farewell. Mary, however, remains still in Mrs. Hudson’s doorway, an odd little smile on her red lips.

 

The uncomfortable standoff lasts for several minutes until John decides that he might learn from Mrs. Kettle’s example and carefully pries a limp Sam out of Sherlock’s arms.

 

“Why don’t I get him settled and let you two talk for a moment?”

 

Sam is a warm and heavy weight against his chest as John walks the seventeen steps up to their flat. Though, when he enters the living room he’s suddenly not sure if it is their flat after all. The place is immaculate. The overflowing bookshelf has its books neatly in place, the stacks of newspapers have been sorted into neat piles in the glass cabinet by the sofa, and the tables are cleared of clutter. The timeline posts on the wall are still there, but the bullet holes have been covered and the wallpaper restored, and John feels oddly like there’s a familiar picture no longer on his walls. The kitchen too is spotless: beakers, vials, Sherlock’s microscope and chemistry set are all locked in a teak cabinet behind clear glass doors. The counter is free of any dangerous object that curious fingers might reach. The apartment smells fresh and clean in a way it probably hasn’t since it was brand new.

 

Upstairs, John finds his old bedroom transformed. Gone is the heavy furniture, and the room’s been painted a calm, sea green color. Against one wall is a white bed, with tall banisters on the short ends, a tall side against the wall, though the side facing the room has only a small guardrail. The bed is neatly made with a periodic table bedsheets and a baby monitor on a table. There’s a white dresser opposite the bed, a large, comfortable chair under the window. Sam’s toys and books are placed within easy reach on an open shelf. 

 

John settles Sam atop the bedsheets, carefully pulls off his boots and his coat, brushes his damp hair away from his eyes and places the stuffed dog into Sam’s hands, watches his fingers curl around the soft fabric. He lingers for a long while at his bedside, feeling at home for the first time in a long while.

 

He’s not sure how long he’s sitting there before he hears Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson’s steps coming up the stairs. They are talking in hushed voices and John wonders if Sherlock hasn’t told Mrs. Hudson that there’s no need to be quiet because Sam can’t hear them. He turns on the monitor and places it close enough to pick up the first sounds of Sam stirring. He’ll be disoriented and confused when he wakes up in an unfamiliar room and John doesn’t want him to be frightened.

 

Downstairs, John shrugs off his own jacket and hangs it next to Sherlock’s. He enters the kitchen just as the kettle boils and finds his arms full of Mrs. Hudson who’s wrapping her sinewy arms around him in a surprisingly strong hug.

 

“Oh, John,” she says, pulling away for a moment and dabbing a finger at her eyelashes, “it’s so good to see you again.”

 

John pats her awkwardly on the back, mumbling his apology into her shoulder. In the corner of his eyes he sees Sherlock, arms behind his back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes darting every which way.

 

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Hudson dismisses, finally pulling free and sniffling a little, “how about some tea?”

 

And then, somehow effortlessly, another familiar piece slides back into place. They settle down in the sofa with their cuppas, while John listens politely to Mrs. Hudson talking about her holiday, her sister and her nieces and nephews, how helpful Mary has been, but how dull life was without Sherlock and John. John looks away guiltily at that, but Sherlock intercedes with some story from a minor case he solved on the side, involving a fake kidnapping of a valuable poodle while following a lead in Copenhagen. Halfway through Sherlock’s story, John hears Sam’s plaintive murmurs from upstairs and excuses himself to coax his son through the first disorienting moments of waking up.  

 

Sam’s sitting up in his bed when John arrives, still holding his stuffed dog and blinking owlishly at the room. He extends his arms to his dad and John gathers him up in his arms, sitting down on the bed and unbuttoning the top few buttons in Sam’s jumper. He’s sleep warm and his hair is tufty and ridiculous and John enjoys the weight of him in against his chest as Sam regards his surrounding with a solemn gaze usually reserved for bored academics at a dull lecture.

 

There’s a gentle knock on the door and Sherlock waits until he has Sam’s attention before stepping into the room. _Everything all right?_

 

John nods and replies, _sometimes we need a moment to become functioning human beings._

 

 _We’ll have something to eat when you come down_ , Sherlock adds, smiling a little at Sam’s warning that there’d better not be anything green on his plate.

 

John descends the stairs with Sam on his arm. Sam has one finger tucked behind his lower lip as he stares and points at all the new objects in the flat. As soon as she spots him, Mrs. Hudson all but leaps from the sofa, her eyes wide and her hands covering her open mouth. Sam goes utterly still in his arms, even as John slowly signs, _Sam, this is Mrs. Hudson. Why don’t you show her how to say hello?_

 

“Oh, what a darling little lamb,” she exclaims, clasping her hands together.

 

Sam tucks his face against John’s shoulder, wrapping his tiny fingers into the fabric of John’s clothes and holds on for dear life.

 

“He’s deaf,” John explains, “so meeting new people is a bit of a struggle at times.”

 

Sherlock helps her navigate through the correct signs to introduce herself, even if there’re tears in her eyes as she struggles to spell her name.

 

After a light meal, Mrs. Hudson excuses herself and John can see the emotional turmoil written in her exhausted posture. Sherlock dismisses her insistent words that she can manage the stairs quite on her own and follows her back down to her own flat.

 

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Sherlock and Sam play with Sam’s animal puzzle and John reads the newspaper for the first time in days, even if it’s full of nothing but hostile articles about Alphas and the menace they are to society. Fortunately, he doesn’t see Glen Reese’s add.

 

They enjoy a dinner of pasta and Sam manages to get most of the sauce on his clothes, in his hair and in Sherlock’s hair. So, John treats him to a bath and by the time he’s tucked into bed, Mrs. Kettle and Hector arrive to babysit.

 

 

John was right in his assumption that Sherlock would find the notion of this clandestine meeting both ridiculous and interesting at the same time. During the cab ride to the station, he’s calmly tapping away on his phone, but his knee, the one he’s got pressed against John’s, is thrumming with energy, not unlike Sam’s excited vibration in the zoo.

 

“What?” Sherlock asks, stealing a glance at John.

 

“Nothing,” John replies, hiding his smile in his fist as he turns to watch the street pass by. He places a hand on Sherlock’s knee, not to still the movement, but simply because he can.

 

“How well do you know Lee Finkle?” Sherlock tucks his phone away, slides his hand down to John’s until John’s palm turns to meet his and their fingers slot together.

 

“Not at all,” John replies, “not really. She was Reese’s attorney and physician, an unusual enough combination, but I haven’t seen her since the trial.” He pauses. “Did you read about it? The trial I mean?”

 

John turns to Sherlock, the lights of passing cars and buildings paints strange shadows across his features, making it impossible to discern anything from his expression.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, “not immediately, I didn’t have access to the newsfeed when the trial was occurring, but I read about it, later.”

 

“Do you really think she knows anything useful?” John asks.

 

“She knows something,” Sherlock answers cryptically.

 

The station is packed with people coming back from a musical or theatre, brochures tucked under their arms, chattering excitedly, moving about with unsteady steps. The tube smells of stale air and urine, it’s warm and uncomfortable. They stand in the archway for a moment, scanning the crowd. It doesn’t take John long to spot her at the far end of the platform, tucked against the wall, her posture stiff and anxious.

 

If John thought Lee Finkle had been dramatic with her whispered promise of information and the note surreptitiously slipped into his hands, it was nothing compared to seeing her in person. She’s clad in a beige trench coat with a hat right out of the 1940s, and a large scarf around her neck, obscuring her face. There’s a small, red, suitcase at her feet, and one of Fenway’s books in her hands.

 

John nudges Sherlock’s side, nods his head towards the woman, and Sherlock turns up the collars of his own coat. John rolls his eyes with a small huff and then follows in Sherlock’s wake as the detective navigates through the crowd of passengers.

 

They stand next to her, far enough to not to convey any sort of familiarity, but close enough to hear a whispered conversation. Sherlock stands with his hands at his back and John falls into his habitual soldier’s rest. A train slows to a halt at the platform, people spill out in a mass of grey and black coats while other passengers push into the cars. The train departs and for a moment the platform is almost entirely empty.

Alexander lowers her book, stealing a glance down the platform. The only people there are a couple of schoolgirls carrying lacrosse sticks and a mother with a tired child on her shoulder. Alexander turns her attention back to her book.

 

“I am navigating the narrow and slippery path of patient confidentiality,” she starts, so low that John actually has press himself closer to Sherlock’s side to hear her.

 

“You claim to have some information,” Sherlock says in a tone of voice that makes John suspect he might not actually be fully convinced of Alexander’s intention.

 

“Yes, well,” her gaze flits back along the platform, then to her book. “Maybe.”

 

“Maybe,” Sherlock tastes the word, his brows furrowing, “if you have something to-”

 

“Just….please understand that this is difficult,” she squeezes out between clenched teeth.

 

Alexander turns a page in her book, “I can’t really say anything…” her shoulders slump a bit, “I didn’t’ even think about it, until….I just got this suspicion when…. That actor Edward Blithely made his announcement,” she mumbles.

 

Sherlock’s patience is thinning already and John puts a hand on his arm to intercede his next action, which he fears might make Alexander change her mind about the whole exchange. She might come off as dawdling, but John remembers her frightened eyes, the way her hands shook.

 

Alexander sighs and scrubs a hand over her face. “At the trial, Glen Reese was sentenced to evaluation at a psychiatric hospital. He was doing well in therapy, and I thought he might benefit from group sessions.”

 

John wrecks his brain for what he knows about the psychiatric practices in England and realises that somebody must have pulled a lot of strings for Glen Reese’s lenient incarceration.

 

“The idea is that the psychiatrist sets up the group and leads it for a half a year or so, before gradually letting the group govern themselves. It’s more of a support group, rather than supervised Group Therapy. After a few months, I asked Mr. Reese how he was feeling about the group, if he was benefitting from its dynamic and sessions.”

 

“And?” Sherlock prompts.

 

“And he said he was enjoying the group, that they were getting along…. “ Alexander hesitates, “the actor, the nurse, lawyer, the marine and him and that…. that they were making real headway….that they had plans for the future.”

 

John feels a niggling sensation in the pit of his stomach.

 

“What were their names?” Sherlock demands, taking a step towards Alexander who immediately freezes, her expression closing and her eyes suddenly white with fear. Her book drops from her eyes hands and she starts backpedalling, tripping over her suitcase and stumbling to the ground.

 

John realizes, a split second too late that it’s not Sherlock who’s put that expression on her face. He feels a hard hand on his elbow, twisting him around and he stares up into a masked face.

 

He’s yanked forwards, his arm twisted painfully around and up along his back, while his assailant at the same time places his leg between John’s in an attempt to make him lose his footing. John stumbles, and he realises he is pulled towards the railway tracks. He can already hear the distant rumble of an approaching train.

 

Somebody screams, probably one of the schoolgirls. John goes through his options really quickly while he tries to push away from his intended course. He knows there’s more strength in his elbow than his fists, that the neck, the nose or the temple are the weak spots. If he can manage to kick his foot hard enough against his assailant’s thigh he might be able to immobilize him, or at least make him lose his grip, if only for a moment.  He wouldn’t need more than a moment to get the upper hand and incapacitate him.

 

He doesn’t have time to do any of this because in the next moment his assailant lets go of him. John falls hard onto the platform, and he feels blood pool in his mouth as he accidentally bites the inside of his mouth upon impact. John takes a breath that is half a groan, and forces himself  back on his knees. He can feel the tremors of the approaching train vibrate through his hands as he tries to get up. His head rings and he stares at the drops of blood that fall onto the dirty pavement of the platform. Suddenly, a hand tightly grips his hair and yanks his head back. He hisses in pain, and he opens his eyes to glare at his assailant, when he sees a dark shadow in the corner of his eyes. The dark form takes shape and he needs only a split-second to recognise Sherlock. The detective leaps forward, a snarl around his mouth while his eyes are like the barrels of a gun. He’s seen this vicious, instinctive ferocity in Sherlock only once before, when DI Dregs pressed him into a corner during the interrogation.

 

The sheer savagery of Sherlock’s assault is a thing of terrifying beauty. The masked figure stumbles backward when Sherlock slams into him. The masked person loses his footing, but it doesn’t even take a heartbeat for him to recover. John pushes himself up, takes a deep breath through his nose, and gathers his wits. He sees Sherlock lashing out again, uncontrolled, hardly human, but the assailant remains calm, confident and simply side steps the vicious swing of Sherlock’s fist, grabs hold of Sherlock’s arm, and then uses the momentum and Sherlock’s own weight to twirl him around and then-

 

John sees Sherlock stumble over the edge and onto the tracks.

 

There’s a brief flash of light. Sparks.

 

The familiar announcement suddenly becomes a threat. “Train approaching. Please stand back behind the yellow line for your safety.”

 

The smell of burnt skin and clothes.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am happy to be able to keep my promise of not letting another month go before I update. Thank you to all of you who keep giving me comments, it is what fuels my passion for writing this story. You´re the best and I hope you will stick with me, even as we pass the 60k mark and start approaching the last few chapters (I am not sure how long this story will be, probably 90-100k).
> 
> As always, hats off to my beta, CowMow, who made this chapter amazing.

**Warning:** Possible triggers for graphic description of CPR. Please note that I´m not a medical professional and that all my research is limited to google. 

 

**Chapter fifteen.**

 

People are screaming.

 

“Train approaching. Please stand back behind the yellow line for your safety.”

 

John coughs and spits blood, before he stumbles to his feet and begins to move towards the edge of the platform. He sees Sherlock lying across the tracks, absolutely and horribly still and he knows that there isn´t any time to lose.

 

John hurries over to the group of schoolgirls and yanks the lacrosse stick out of the hands of a redhead, who’s staring at him with wide eyes and tearstained cheeks.

 

“Push the emergency button and get somebody on the emergency phone- make sure the bloody train doesn’t run us over,” he barks out before jumping onto the tracks. The redhead stands stock-still, but one of her friends leaps into action, rushing over to the emergency button, making the train come to a screeching stop.

 

Carefully balancing on the sleepers, John uses the lacrosse stick to lift Sherlock’s limbs away from the dangerous tracks. Immediately afterwards, he pulls his immobile body to lay along the sleepers. He doesn’t bother searching for a pulse, there are too many heavy layers separating him from Sherlock’s skin. He places his ears against Sherlock’s lips-

 

-No breath.

 

Later, John will be grateful that his body knows how to take over when his brain is unable to function and that the voice of his first aid instructor is suddenly loud and precise in his head, reminding him that he is a doctor and that the correct response is hardwired in every cell of his body.

 

The first step is to clear the airway. Sherlock’s head lolls back against John’s hands as he tilt his head carefully back. He opens Sherlock’s mouth, squeezes his nose shut with his fingers. He takes a deep breath, pushes his own air into Sherlock’s lunges, and watches his chest inflate and sag.

 

He repeats-

 

-Still no breath.

 

‘Place the heel of your hand on the centre of the person’s chest,’ his memorised first-aid instructor adds. ‘If you go too low on the chest there’s a bone there, quite sharp, it’s called the Xiphoid and its purpose is to protect the heart and the soft organs in the chest cavity. If you break it, you will suddenly have a sharp projectile in the victim’s body. Very not good. Go slightly higher, there, now, well done. Place the heel of your other hand on top of your fist. Lace them together. Keep your arms straight, Watson, CPR is heavier and more tiresome than you might think. You’ll need to take advantage of your own body weight when you do the compression. Good, look here everyone how Watson is doing it, his arms are straight and his shoulders are directly over his hand. Perfect! Now, remember to push hard and fast, compressing the chest at least two inches. Don’t worry about injuring or breaking any ribs, a person can recover from that. He won’t recover from death.’

 

John remembers the first time he used CPR on an actual person. He had been sixteen years old. Andrew and he had been planning on going to this party that one of their mates was throwing. Andrew had slyly told John that he knew where his father stored his beer and that it’d be dead easy to nick a few. John had waited outside, huddled in his denim jacket, stomping his feet to fight off the cold when he’d heard Andrew’s scream. He’d rushed inside, following the wails to the living room where Andrew’s dad lay still on the floor. John had instinctively done all the things he’d learned and practiced over and over again. Clear the airways, position and compression. But he hadn’t been expecting the noises. The groans and grunts, the wheezing and creaks that an immobile body produces when air is forced into its lunges and its chest is compressed. He’d kept it at for twenty-three minutes before the ambulance arrived, but Andrew’s dad was beyond rescue.

 

Now Sherlock is below him, his body making the same nauseating noises and it’s worse, far worse than the sound of shelling, the screams of the dying, the sound of an L85A2 being fired. No, this dry hiss and whistle from Sherlock makes his heart crawl up his throat and lodge there painfully, as if it is desperate to escape.

 

‘Compress thirty times in a quick rhythm,’ his instructor’s voice flits through, calm and smooth. ‘If you want you can use the beat from Staying Alive, let the chest rise completely before pushing down again. Then repeat the two inhalations of air, remember to pull slightly away from the victim before you fill your lungs, you want clean air. Good job, Watson. Now, keep it up until the person starts breathing independently or an emergency responder takes over. Now, the average response time is 15 minutes, and that is a long time to keep up this kind of work, so in the ideal situation there will be two of you and you’d be able to switch. Now –’

 

-When the first aid responders do appear and-

 

“The AED- yes, quickly.”

 

No, they can’t pull him away yet, because Sherlock isn’t breathing! He’s a doctor, for Christ’s sake, he knows what he’s doing. Why are they trying to keep him away? _Calm down_? He is bloody calm. No, he doesn’t want to have a cup of tea! He plants his fist into somebody’s face, hears a curse and feels the pain of his knuckles as they come away bloody. He hadn’t curled his fist properly and pain blooms in his fingers. Another arm is on him, dragging him away and as he raises his hand for another strike he feels two strong arms encircling him, pinning him against a strong, unforgiving mass of muscle.

 

Let me go! I need to get back to-

 

A cough, a raspy inhalation, a wheeze.

 

“He’s breathing, get the gurney.”

 

What happens next seems to happen too far away; like there’s a telly in the background you’re not really paying attention to. He sees the gurney being lowered down onto the rails, while curious onlookers pull out their phones to capture every second. The gurney is hoisted back onto the platform, with Sherlock’s dark form strapped to an orange board. He’s wrapped in a blanket and there are tubes and wires attached to his body.

 

But he’s breathing. He’s alive.

 

John’s not really sure how or why there’s a blanket around his shoulders or why the world is suddenly filled in a hazy array of dancing colours.

 

 

 

Sherlock awakes in stages. First he feels the unpleasant sting of a needle in his hand, then he becomes aware of the sounds: the humming of machinery, the faint, rhythmic beeping of heart monitor, wheels rolling over linoleum floor, a dry cough. He cracks his eyes open and immediately wishes he hadn't as he feels the prickling pain of thousands of needles sliding into his brain. White noise roars in his ears and he tries to put his arm over his eyes to shield himself from the assault of visual input, but there is something heavy weighing it down.

 

“You broke your arm when you fell and it´s in a cast. I´ll turn the lights off,” a voice says, and in the fuzzy recesses of his mind he recognizes it, annoyingly, as belonging to Mycroft.

 

The pain dissipates but doesn’t completely recede. He takes stock of himself, notes the bandage around his head, the dull throb along his spine and the blue and white cast extending from his hand to just below his elbow.  He’s in pain, but far worse is the fractured distortion of his memory. He remembers the subway station, Finkle, and John, but the chronology is all jumbled and he cannot piece together which events led him from standing on the platform to lying in a hospital bed.

 

“You were attacked,” Mycroft says smoothly and Sherlock wonders how evident his confusion is.

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock croaks out, and instantly he feels his words turn to sand in his mouth. He turns his head to the side table, and fumbles around for a glass of water. Mycroft moves to his side, holding a plastic cup to him with a bloody straw in it. Sherlock glares at the affronting beverage and tries to pull himself up so he can snatch the cup from Mycroft’s hand and drink like a grown up. To his dismay, his body isn’t prepared to fully cooperate, his movements sluggish, and he grabs for the cup twice before he manages to wrap his fingers around it. Even then, the water sloshes against the edges as he drinks and he’s grateful that Mycroft remains silent, and that he doesn’t push the cup further onto the table when his aim misses and the cup ends up wobbling on the edge.

 

“The doctors have assured me that your discomfort is temporary.”

 

Sherlock collapses back against the pillows, his gaze tracking Mycroft as he moves across the room and folds himself elegantly into a sharp chair. He’s dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit and even though it looks like it just came off the tailor’s rack in Savile Row, Sherlock can read all the minute traces of hours spent in that chair in Mycroft's face. He has been worried.

 

Mycroft folds one leg over the other and clasps his hands at his knees and watches him. “You’ve been unconscious for several hours. You’ve suffered a concussion, a rather simple fracture in your right arm and cardiac arrest.”

 

The fourth rail, his mind supplies helpfully, carries the electric power that fuels the train, between 600 and 800 volts. You have most likely suffered burns and ventricular fibrillation, arrhythmia, cardiac arrest. He can see the logical steps of what must have happened: falling onto the tracks, the emergency team arriving, him being conveyed to the hospital. He is aware of the normal grogginess that follows severe trauma to the head and his heart. He can recreate every minute, but he can’t remember it. He hasn’t lost time, not like this, since his experiment with cocaine. But that is something he doesn’t want to think about. Ever.

 

“John is well,” he says instead, not daring to pursue the question at the end of that sentence. Mycroft regards him with glacial calm for a long moment.

 

“Quite well,” he says, then, and Sherlock is glad that Mycroft refrains from his usual psychoanalysis of the statement. “Some minor scrapes and bruises. I suggested he return home and get some sleep while I tended to your vigil.” Mycroft pauses, something like a smile teasing the edge of his corners as if he’s remembering a private joke. “I have no doubt he will return at your bedside as soon as visiting hours allow him.”

 

A knot in his stomach unravels and Sherlock feels the worry there ebb away in the certainty that Mycroft would not lie to him. Not about this.

 

“It was John who saved you, of course. Modern media has assured that he’s already an Internet sensation.”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes against the sudden onslaught of memories of the masked assailant grabbing John and pulling him away from Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t even registered that he allowed his biology and his instincts to dictate his response. He thinks of the dark, roaring rage that took hold of him, how his inner Alpha released a churning vortex of rage and anger at anyone who dared to touch what is his.

 

He knew it was a conditioned response, but it was one he had spent his whole life suppressing. He would not permit himself to be an adherent to some defunct strain of DNA that had placed upon him the burden of an anachronistic biology.

 

Wasn’t this a prime example to the dangerous disadvantages to love? If his mind hadn’t been consumed with this red mist of rage, he’d have been able to disable the assailant easily. The judo certificate on his bedroom wall wasn’t just for show. They might have had the murderers captured, the whole Alpha mess put to rest and he could return to his study of bed mites that he had been forced to abandon at a critical stage-

 

No. He doesn’t care to return to his experiment. Not yet, at any rate. Maybe later, when he knows everything about Sam (which will occupy him for the rest of his lifetime.) After the case is solved.

 

“And Lee Finkle?”

 

Mycroft frowns, straightening his posture, shifting one leg over the other.

 

“There was a fire at her practice a few hours ago,” he says slowly. “By the time emergency services arrived there was nothing left to save. A body was recovered at the scene and while nothing is confirmed yet, I fear we must assume that Doctor Finkle is dead.”

 

“Unfortunate,” Sherlock replies. But not unexpected. If only Lee Finkle had spent less time playing games, if she had just told them what she knew.

 

“John said she parted with some important knowledge,” Mycroft says.

 

Sherlock scratches the edge of his cast, dreading every heartbeat it takes for his mind to summon the memory. Too slow, much too slow. “She likely knew the identity of the people who conspired together to see the three men hanged at the primary school. She felt bound by doctor-patient confidentiality to shield their identity.”

 

“I see,” Mycroft says in a tone of voice Sherlock eagerly recognizes as Mycroft’s attempt at hiding his ignorance.

 

“Glen Reese was part of a Support Group, along with a-” there’s a terrible pause before Sherlock finally remembers, “the actor, the nurse, the lawyer, the marine.”

 

Mycroft steeples his fingertips, resting his hands in front of his lips as his brilliant mind skips ahead to the same conclusion Sherlock reached moments before John was dragged away.

 

“The actor being Edward Blithely. So we have two of five men identified, and one of them dead.”

 

“But no evidence,” Sherlock points out.

 

Mycroft slips a hand into the pocket of his jacket and finds his smartphone. He taps his finger across the screen.

 

Sherlock watches him, waiting for the explanation to whatever cogs Mycroft’s now put into motion. Mycroft finally tucks the phone away and finds Sherlock’s gaze.

 

“Moriarty,” he says slowly. “You think he is still involved.”

 

Sherlock frowns at his cast, allowing himself a few seconds to digest the question. He doesn’t want to voice his uncertainty of how Moriarty could be involved in this.  Was this a plot already in its infancy when Moriarty had served him tea in his living room? It seems the kind of Machiavellian plot that only his mind would be able to construct. _Olly, olly, oxen free_. We’re playing a new game now, but it’s still a game by my design and my rules.

 

“It does seem like something he would find amusing,” Sherlock replies, “Getting the whole of society opposed to Alphas.”

 

Mycroft looks like he’s bitten into something vile but is too polite to spit out. “Popular opinion is a changing trend. In a few days there will be some new scandal that draws their attention away,” Mycroft replies in a way that makes Sherlock suspect that if something doesn’t appear by itself, Mycroft will ensure it.

 

“I am certain Moriarty has a design on how all of this will end,” Sherlock murmurs. Mycroft goes rigid, even if his face remains a perfect, expressionless mask. Sherlock feels something sour twist in his stomach and doesn’t want to pursue the line of inquiry of Moriarty’s vision of the end. Mycroft, however, won’t permit him this disinclination.

 

“Perhaps they would be safer out of the country,” Mycroft says then. “I have suggested it before, but John has always been adamant that they’d stay in Britain.”

 

Sherlock could almost smile at this, at John’s stubbornness of not letting any kind of danger drive him completely out of his home.

 

“You took care of them.” It wasn’t what he meant to say and before Mycroft can school his appearance, Sherlock sees something akin to an offense in the dip of his brow. It surprises him, while he thought there was so little about Mycroft that could do that.

 

“Of course,” Mycroft says, smoothing a hand across his trousers. “It was what you would have wanted.”

 

“It was difficult,” Sherlock says and for a while Mycroft simply watches him.

 

“Yes. It was hard, for John especially. Considering his… condition.”

 

Mycroft regards him in that condescending way only an older brother can. Sherlock shirks away from his gaze. Awkwardly, he fiddles with a loose thread on his bedsheets, but he knows Mycroft has seen it and knows what it means.

 

“Ah, you didn’t know.” His voice is smug, but not quite pleased. “Would it have changed anything?”

 

“No,” Sherlock replies. The odds had been so small that they hadn’t even entered his calculations. 

 

Mycroft sighs and combs a hand through his thinning hair. He looks older, suddenly, as if some memory has added ten years to his age. It makes Sherlock’s chest tighten unpleasantly. He knows that things had been difficult for John, but for the first time he recognizes that Mycroft had been affected by Sherlock’s absence and that the years were now etched in the creases of his brows and the lines of his face.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, startling an expression like a stunned owl in Mycroft’s stoic face. “For taking care of them,” Sherlock explains, delighted in the myriad of new and undignified expressions he can coax out of Mycroft.

 

“Try not to die again, little brother, your loss would break my heart.”

 

He should have known that Mycroft would even best him in emotional blackmail. Sherlock scoffs and ducks his head to hide his expression. Before he has a snide reply ready on his lips, the door opens and a nurse enters, carrying a tray of grey bowls and plates.

 

“Mr. Holmes, I was told you were awake. Perhaps you would care for some dinner?”

 

She looks different in her blue nurse uniform, but Mycroft helpfully supplies the name of Baker Street’s recent occupant.

 

“Ms. Morstan,” he says, moving away so that she can place the tray on the side table.

 

She smiles a tight, red, pull of lips and moves to lift Sherlock’s pillows back, before she eases his bed up in a slightly upright position.

 

“How are we feeling?” she asks, moving gracefully around the bed and grabbing the chart. She consults the doctor’s notes, studies the machines and then eyes Sherlock, waiting for his response.

 

“Fine,” he grumbles, his nose flinching against the assault of the rancid odours of hospital food.

 

“Glad to hear it,” she says, scribbling something on the chart and then, with an odd little dip of her head, leaves the room.

 

 

 

The next time Sherlock wakes up, John occupies Mycroft’s chair. He has his nose buried in a medical magazine while Sam sits on the floor by his feet, poking at a smart tablet. Sherlock allows himself a few uninterrupted minutes to study John, the way his left eye twitches in John’s struggle to stay awake, the curve of his aching back against the hard plastic chair, his head resting in his hand as he stares at the magazine, half asleep and not really reading a word. John, Sherlock thinks, didn’t take Mycroft’s advice.

 

Sherlock clears his throat, startling John out of his reverie.

 

“Hey, you’re awake,” he says, unable to avoid stating the obvious. He smiles a little and runs his hand over Sam’s head, getting their son’s attention.

 

 _Look who’s awake_ , John signs. Sam, however, simply looks annoyed at being interrupted while working on something fiendishly important and spares Sherlock only a passing glance.

 

“How are you feeling?” John asks, rising slowly from his chair and moving across the room to pick up Sherlock’s medical chart. John’s movements are stiff and uncomfortable, which can’t be blamed on the chair alone. He’s got some cuts on the palms of his hands where he braced himself against the impact on the platform, and there is an obvious limp to his step.

 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says, but John still browses his chart, making a considerate noise at the medical jargon.

 

“The attending physician was worried about head trauma when you weren’t able to tell him who our current prime minister is,” John remarks with a smile that crinkles the skin around his eyes pleasantly. Sherlock scowls, hiding his worry that he can’t even remember being admitted. What else has he forgotten? “You were, however, able to diagnose your own fracture and tell the doctor of his affair with one of the nurses in paediatrics.”

 

Sherlock hears the slight tremor in John’s voice, and carefully grabs John’s hand, wrapping his fingers around his wrist in an attempt to still his anxious movements.

 

“I am quite alright,” Sherlock says, softly. John’s smile relaxes a little, his hand sliding down until it’s tucked safely under Sherlock’s palm.

 

“I know,” John says, lowering himself to sit on Sherlock’s bedside. “I’ve just had a bit of a scare,” he admits. The words hold layers of meanings behind them that Sherlock will allow John to hide. He thinks about Mycroft’s quiet confession of how difficult things had been for John, and knows that he must re-examine the evidence from their first meeting after he came back from the dead, that someday they will actually need to have a conversation about it.

 

“What happened to your attacker?”

 

John steals a glance at Sam who is still content to work on his smart tablet.

 

“He vanished. We have him on CCTV where he’s running up the stairs, but he disappears from one camera to the next. They found a black raincoat, a black hat and one of those ski masks in a corner on the tube station. He probably shrugged his clothes off and blended into the crowd. They sent the clothes off to be analysed, but they didn’t seem very hopeful.”

 

“It is probably somebody from the group,” Sherlock muses. “They must have had Lee Finkel under surveillance.”

 

John nods. “She’s dead, Sherlock,” he says, “Lestrade texted me that they had the remains from the fire identified by her dental records. It’s…” John’s body sags a little and he leans into Sherlock’s touch, careful not to press too hard against his injuries. “It’s a bit of a mess,” he settles on.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, even if his mind is busy sorting through the debris. Had their assailant gone straight from the tube station to Finkle’s practice, waited until Lee Finkle arrived, trapped her in her office and then set the place ablaze? Why? To ruin her medical records, of course, and keep her from talking. That could only mean that the identity of the killers could have been found in her paperwork. By why wait until now to destroy them? Had they thought Finkle would keep their identities a secret? Had she been involved in the plot? Had she been ignorant of the whole plan until she saw Blithely on the television? Why had she not reacted when Glen Reese was brutally murdered? Was he murdered because of his involvement with the group or as a way to mark the anniversary of Sherlock’s death? Had the universe, for once, been lazy?

 

“Have they located the driver?”

 

John blinks at him for several seconds before he catches up with Sherlock’s thoughts.

 

“The prison transport driver? No, at least Lestrade hasn’t mentioned anything, but I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday.”

 

Hm. So he’s probably dead, or he’s fled the country. The former seems more probable.

 

“Is Lestrade questioning that actor?”

 

“Edward Blithely?” John frowns. “Well, Lestrade did say he had something to take care of at the Yard-”

 

“Right,” Sherlock replies. “Give me your phone.”

 

John hands him his smartphone and while Sherlock types out his instructions to Lestrade with one hand, John keeps his eyes on the steady beat of the heart monitor. He sees the replay of Sherlock tumbling over the edge every time he closes his eyes and it is only far too easy to remember him stepping off the roof at St. Barts. He feels the weight of Sherlock’s encased hand still on his, even as he taps away on the phone with his left hand.

 

“Orders for Lestrade?”

 

“Somebody needs to tell him what to do,” Sherlock replies.

 

“Of course,” John replies with a smile. “He said he’d drop by later for a visit.”

 

“Ugh.” Sherlock scowls. “How long will you insist that they keep me here?”

 

John gives him an odd look. “I’m honestly surprised that you haven’t discharged yourself already.”

 

“I thought you might have objected,” Sherlock replies, even if that isn’t the whole truth.

 

“That’s hardly stopped you before,” John points out, arching an eyebrow.

 

“Well,” Sherlock replies almost hesitantly. “I wouldn’t want you worry.”

 

“Oh, I worry, we all do. Constantly.” John’s voice is steady when he responds and even if his face creases into a smile, Sherlock feels the slight tremor in his hand. The effect is jarring and he tightens his grip on John’s hand.

 

“It’s difficult to think straight when you’re in danger,” Sherlock confesses and he hears the sound of his own heartbeat in those words. John’s hands fall still under his and he sees how John has to fight to keep his face blank.

 

“Alpha instincts?” John asks, bravely soldiering on. And suddenly here they are, addressing the proverbial elephant in the room. They’ve stumbled into this conversation and Sherlock, who hasn’t shifted his balance fast enough, finds himself floundering for words. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, leaving him feeling rudderless and confused for a moment before he settles on the blunt truth of it.

 

“Yes and no. The instinct is only part of it, but I do not know where instinct ends and the rest of it begins.”

 

“The… rest of it?” John asks. He’s gone absolutely stock-still against Sherlock, like he’s bracing himself.

Sherlock can’t look at him, so he looks at Sam instead, sees the halo of dark hair, the curve of his back as he leans over, his attention honed in on whatever he’s working on.

 

“You know well my thoughts on love.” He can almost sense John’s wince and John’s voice is hollow when it speaks, even if he’s tried to inject a sense of…carelessness into it. But John Watson was never a good actor.

 

“I remember you calling love a chemical defect found on the losing side, a string of pointless transmission between neurons.”

 

Alphas and Omegas and their messy equation of hormones and pheromones, a calculation of neurotransmitters, dopamine, oxytocin, and vasopressin. Sherlock thinks of the blood test Molly performed that showed his high levels of cortisol. The chemical equation that spells that Sherlock loves John.

 

“The chemical equation is only defective if there is no reaction between the two substances. If successful, both will change.” He’s using Carl Jung’s words, but only because the English language is utterly inadequate to accurately and completely allow him to describe it to John in any other way.

 

He feels rather than sees that John is following his words and suddenly he’s quite eager for John to pursue them all the way to the conclusion.

 

“I have no control of these emotions and I’ve no desire to harness them.”

 

“It’s a good thing we’re not Bonded,” John says. Sherlock looks at him, as if suddenly stung. His mind skips back along their exchange, wondering if he’s erred and how he needs to correct his mistake.

 

“If we had been,” John explains, twisting his hand until his palm is pressed against Sherlock’s and he can entangle his fingers with the detective’s, “I would have been utterly useless on the platform.”

 

Sherlock slowly tucks the phone away, carefully studying John in his peripheral vision while he pretends to scratch his cast. John looks… Does he look different? Was this something that has weighed heavily on his mind?

 

He thinks John might have asked him to Bond, once, but then Sherlock couldn’t tether them together because he had needed John to believe that his suicide was real and the Bond would not have allowed any such deception. Since then he hasn’t given it much thought, he had always assumed (hoped) that John would remain a part of his life, even if they didn’t uphold the oldest of Alpha and Omega traditions and customs.

 

“It’s an archaic thing,” John says, as if he’s privy to Sherlock’s thoughts, “I get why it might have been necessary to tie mates together, to ensure their….” he waves his hand about the room in a gesture that Sherlock doesn’t know how to interpret.

 

“And I know that there are plenty of romantic notions tied to the idea, of always knowing that the other person would be there, to pick up on his moods and needs, always knowing if he’s safe, that he’ll return. But when it’s suddenly severed, it’s….it’s dangerous. A dangerous disadvantage.”

 

Sherlock’s not able to suppress his confusion fast enough to prevent it from reaching his face. John sees it because he quickly gives Sherlock’s hand another reassuring squeeze.

 

“Not that, I mean. We live dangerous lives and that’s fine, but we need to be able to keep control of our wits, it’s our most formidable weapon, isn’t it?” He pauses, wets his lips. “I mean, if we had been Bonded, I would have known that you hadn’t faked your death and probably I would have foiled your carefully constructed plan to keep all of us safe. If we were Bonded, I wouldn’t have been able to save you when you fell onto the railway tracks. We do need to be able to act logically when-”

 

Sherlock grabs John’s jumper and yanks him forward until he can press his lips against John’s. John’s free hand slides along his arm and closes down on his shoulder, his thumb pressing gently into the muscles of his neck. He deepens the kiss for a moment until Sherlock tips his head back to look at him, feeling the warmth of the ridiculous feeling that’s made a home in his chest. A notch mars the skin between John’s eyebrows, curious, a little concerned, and his gaze studies Sherlock’s face intently. He places a hand on his cheek, spreads his fingers against the skin.

 

“And, for the record…” John leans forward, even if the angle is awkward and painful, presses his forehead against Sherlock’s and for a moment they share the sliver of air between them. “ _Me too_.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of you who are continuing to support me with your comments and kudos, without you this story wouldn´t have gotten very far.
> 
> As always, I am debt to my wonderful beta CowMow, who listens to my ramblings and crazy ideas, and still manages to decide I´m worth the time and effort. <3
> 
> Please read the warnings at each individual chapter.

**Warning for possible trigger: bullying (I guess) foul language, implied suicide (no main characters)**

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**Chapter sixteen.**  

  


During the early hours of dawn, winter begins its slow siege of London. There’s a distinctive bite to the wind, which drives the early morning commuters to huddle together like penguins, while school children arm themselves with heavy scarves and coats as they trudge down the dark streets. Even when the pale English sun breaks the clouds, the day continues to be sharp and cold.

 

The frigid winds have done little to deter the participants of a campaign that flourished on social media last night and urged people to take a stand against the vicious Alpha who is, according to an unknown source, enjoying the benefits of social housing in an area full of children. At two pm, a group of about twenty people gathers outside a large apartment complex in Basingstoke. They stand with their necks craned, staring at the figure of a man who half sits, half stands in an open window on the sixth floor. One hand is curled tightly around the old wooden window frame. He’s weeping, his entire body trembling with the effort to maintain the last dignity. The grip on the window frame tightens. Occasionally he dares a glance at the crowd below, trying to make out their blurry faces, trying to find a friendly one.

 

Their voices, however, he hears clearly.

 

“Do it!”

 

“Just get it over with, you filthy coward!”

 

“Jump! You goddamned monster, jump! We don’t want to spend all day here.”

 

A young woman, hands wrapped around the handles of a stroller, turns her vicious green eyes up to the frightened man. “Bloody do it, you great wuss. The world’s better off without your kind!”

 

Cheers of agreement follow the woman’s assessment followed by cries of similar sentiments on how Alphas are the root of all evil, how they caused the economic recession, causing millions to lose their savings. On the first floor, a kitchen window opens and a round man with several wobbling chins and fat locks of hair glued to his forehead squints at the crowd. The woman with the stroller hurries to explain.

 

“He’s one of the Alphas from that list. He spent a measly six months in prison for raping two young girls. Can you imagine that they just let somebody like this walk around freely? Our kids play here, for godssake”

 

The guy in the first-floor window gives the woman his middle finger and slams the window shut. It does nothing to deter the crowd who continue their name-calling and urgent calls to the man to get it over with so that they can all be home in time for tea.

 

A police car arrives and two constables emerges from the car, a man and woman. After briefly scanning the crowd, which seems to keep getting larger, the two of them disappear through the main door of the apartment complex. The floor is covered with old newspapers, pamphlets and the mail of former tenants. The male constable wrinkles his nose in disgust at the cloying stench of cat piss.

 

“What a shit hole,” the female constable mumbles, “I would be inclined to end it myself if I had to live here.”

 

The male constable presses his lips to a thin line and nudges his partner towards the staircase. “We’re just here to do our job.”

 

The female constable blushes faintly at the reprimand and quells the barbed reply on the tip of his tongue. They take the stairs in silence until they arrive on the sixth floor and find a brown door painted red with angry words. _Alpha bastard, rapist, pervert_ . There are some Arabic and Chinese characters drawn as well, likely echoing the hateful sentiments.

 

First, the male constable tries to kick the door down, but it only earns him a painful knee and bruise. Not one willing to lose face in front of his partner, his _female_ partner, he pulls back as far as the corridor will permit him and then rams his shoulder against the frame. There’s a delightful crack, the door is nudged open and the two of them step inside.

 

The apartment is in a dreadful state. It reeks of stale air, old food, sweat, and piss. There are cartons of take-away food, pizza boxes and empty cans of food lining the walls in the corridor along with several plastic bags of garbage. How long has it been since this guy stepped outside?

 

A few steps away from the suicide candidate, they pause. They remember their training and the female constable takes a few steps forward and raises her hand, indicating for her partner to stop when he starts to follow her. The man in the window turns his face towards them, his eyes wide and bloodshot.

 

“If you come any closer, I’m going to jump.” He’s struggling through each consonant, terrified of his own promise.

 

The female constable raises both her palms in a placating gesture and grabs a random chair. She sits down, folds one leg over the other and clasps her hands on her knees. Outside they hear the chant of the crowd. _Jump, jump, jump_. The words echo like a dark drum beat between the building. The Alpha’s grip on the window frame tightens.

 

“We’re going to stay. We just want to talk to you.” Her voice is smooth and calm and her partner tries to hide his surprise at this unknown side of his partner. Usually, he’s the good cop.

 

The Alpha doesn’t react, his gaze locked on the teeming crowd below.

 

“Things are going to change, soon this will all be over and people won’t care that you’re an Alpha,” she continues, “you know how these things go. Some member of the royal family will do something embarrassing and this whole Alpha-nonsense will blow over. Trust me, you’ll see.”

 

She speaks slowly and with suspiciously articulated confidence. But her words are distorted by the chant below and the Alpha turns his pleading gaze on her. He has to be about thirty or so years old, she reckons. Short brown hair and almond-shaped eyes that make him look younger. Or maybe that’s due to the fear in his eyes. The Alpha looks at the female constable, takes in her gentle smile and there’s this unexpected clench in his chest. Maybe she’s right, maybe things will blow over and he can move somewhere where nobody knows the crime he committed when he was seventeen years old, when his body was battling all these terrifying, vicious forces. The memory sits like a stone in his chest; he remembers the feeling of blood rushing through his head and the friendly doctor telling him that this wasn’t his fault. That he was, in a sense, a victim of biology and that society can’t fault him for urges he has no control over.

 

“Matt, go down and try and get the crowd to shut up, would you?” She turns to her partner and Matt hesitates, pauses to assess the situation. He takes in his partner’s careful, slightly tilted smile, the Alpha’s pleading gaze.

 

“Yeah, sure.” He swallows thickly, and with a small nod he turns on his heels and leaves. She hears the door shut behind him, counts the seconds it will take for his feet to carry him down the stairs.

 

As soon as she’s confident he’s gone, her posture stiffens, her slanted smile turns sharp. When she was a teenager, she’d been her boyfriend’s most precious possession. When she wanted to break up with him, he’d locked her up in his flat for four days. He got a few months probationary caution, she is still struggling with the nightmares. The last few days has knocked something loose in her. She rises slowly from the chair and walks over to the Alpha. Her ex would be about his age now.

 

“Jump or come back inside. I don’t care, just get it over with.”

 

His eyes widen and he stares at her for a long second before he lets go. The collective gasp of the crowd accompanies his fall.

 

 

 

Sherlock thinks he ought to feel terribly bored, tied down to a hospital bed by nothing but the strength of John’s concern when there’s something as new and interesting as a therapy support group who’s decided to commit murder together out there. 

 

He’s not bored, he’s endlessly fascinated with studying all the nuances of John’s and Sam’s interaction. He analyses Sam’s keen focus on the puzzle on the smart tablet  and the way he steals glances at John when John isn’t looking with an intent expression on his face, like he’s trying to calculate the odds of someone like John existing and being a part of his life.

 

It’s a sentiment Sherlock knows all too well.

 

 _Sam_ , John places a hand gently on his shoulder until he has his son’s attention, _why don’t you show Sherlock what you’re working on?_

 

Sam looks down at his tablet again and then over at Sherlock as if he’s assessing Sherlock’s potential beneficial input to his current puzzle. He grabs the tablet and scampers over to the bed, and John gives his back a small nudge to help him up.  Sherlock tries not to wince as Sam settles against him, manoeuvring his arm until he has Sam’s warm back against his chest and the tablet in his lap.

_What has captured your attention so?_

 

 _Anatomy puzzle,_ Sam signs and shows Sherlock the white outline of a skeleton, a few yellow bones slotted in place.

 

John watches the two of them fondly. _That puzzle had been Mycroft’s idea_.

 

 _What does that sign mean?_ Sherlock asks, _the one you said before idea_.

 

Sam curls his right hand into a loose fists, places his left hand, also curled in a fist, right above, and then raises it upwards in a smooth movement.

 

 _Umbrella_ , John explains. _We decided it would be Mycroft’s sign name_.

 

 _Sign name?_ Sherlock questions clumsily, his cast hampering the fluid movements of his hands and arms.

 

_In deaf culture, a sign name is a sign that is used to uniquely identify a person, spelling a name takes far too long, especially yours._

 

 _How are these names decided?_ Sherlock asks, thinking that nobody else in the entire world would be allowed to give Mycroft a nickname, even their mother had to struggle all the way through to the last consonant.

_It could be an aspect of your personality, your appliance, hobby, job or…well, mostly anything._

_I see. What’s my name?_

 

Sam curls his right hand, his index finger curled bit higher, resting slightly over the other fingers, he taps the right side of his chest, the spot over his heart.

 

“Detective,” John says and Sherlock tries not to preen.

 

_What about your name, John?_

 

John grimaces, _some days it’s daddy, some days it’s tea or jumper. Guess I’ll wait until the final verdict._

 

 _They are all excellent choices,_ Sherlock teases with great satisfaction as John rolls his eyes.

 

They spend a comfortable half an hour together working through the puzzle, until John disappears and comes back with a skeletal anatomy model that makes Sam abandon the smart tablet in favour of insisting John tell him name of all the bones in the body. John struggles through most of them, as his sign language course hadn't included instructions for the Latin names of all the bones in the human hand.

 

A little after four pm, Sam grows hungry and fussy and John bids Sherlock farewell. He bundles Sam up in his green coat and hat and helps Sam to navigate his hands into a pair of dark blue mittens. They wave at him in the doorway before they disappear down the corridor and the consulting detective tries not to feel how incredibly empty his hospital room suddenly is.

 

He fiddles around with John’s phone for a while, his own not having survived the impact with the railway tracks. John’s phone is brand new and Sherlock doesn’t want to deduce the fate of its predecessor. He flicks through the selection of pictures, pausing at each one to take in all the minute details. There’s plenty of pictures of Sam on it, Sam sitting at the kitchen table with the entire color tableau of pencils spread around him. Sam scowling at his puzzles, Sam and Mycroft  with a similar expression of fascination staring at a television program of a sheep with a hat, Sam, and Mrs. Kettle, Sam and John, Sam, Sam-

 

Sherlock’s thumb stops. There’s a picture of himself and Sam, Sam upon his shoulders, his hands in Sherlock’s hair as they watch the otters. The next one is also of them together, Sam’s hand firmly in his as they walk along the enclosure of the lemurs, as they pause at the railing to watch the meerkats. There are almost twenty pictures, most of them capturing them from behind, though there’s a glimpse of the corner of his smile, of the amazement in Sam’s eyes.

 

He shuts the screen, his mind still searching for the words to adequately address the myriad of emotions that are swimming in his chest. In an unguarded moment, Sherlock admits to himself that he might never have felt as happy as he does now, head injury, a broken arm, and unsolved murders be damned.

 

He dozes for a while and wakes to the sound of squeaky wheels over the linoleum floor. They serve him dreadful food that tastes like cardboard, but he forces himself to eat the pudding and the bread roll because John would want him to. After an orderly clears away his tray, he finds John’s phone again and spends a while catching up on the news. He’s never been piqued by the headlines of politics, scandals and world catastrophes, they were never very interesting (and far too often a part of Mycroft’s machinations,) but he’s desperate for a distraction, anything that might jolt his mind back into action.

 

There are several headlines devoted to Edward Blithley’s List. Some are arguing the dangers of publishing this kind of classified information while others claim that the public needs to be aware of just what sort of dangerous individuals they might have in their neighbourhood. One expert, a Professor Ann Carnberg, warns for the dangers of crowd mentality and goes into a long segment of Freudian theory of crowd behaviour. Becoming a member of a crowd, Professor Carnberg says, allows the unlocking of the unconscious mind and lets the moral consciousness be replaced by that of a charismatic crowd leader. According to Freud, the basic, simplistic (animalistic) emotions are almost commonplace in a crowd and leads to a primitive level of emotional expression. Furthermore, the anonymity afforded in a crowd and the arousal resulting from mirrored emotions can weaken a person’s control and thus their personal identity and their concern for peer and social evaluation and consequences. The result can often be riots, looting, violence, rampage. The United Kingdom, she says, is lucky to not have seen any real violence as a result of this list. The unwritten “yet” is as visible as the bold headline. Sherlock knows that the pulse of London is only steadily increasing, that someday soon people won’t be content to just voice their outrage in public and social media.

 

Edward Blithley must have been aware of the possible dangers of the publications of the List. Sherlock remembers the calculated, practiced television announcement. A scripted performance. Then there is the addition of ad campaigns and the increasing participation of individuals sharing their story which only supports this theory. The timing cannot be a coincidence.

 

What would happen then?

 

Is this what Blithely, Reese and the rest of the support group had planned? Public outcry, the demonisation of Alphas? But to what end? And how can they benefit from this potential chaos? Or is chaos their ultimate goal? The only individual Sherlock can think of who would enjoy chaos for the sake of chaos, is Moriarty. He could hardly have managed to manipulate these individuals to commit mass murder with such a meagre reward. He must have promised them something else, but what? 

 

Lee Finkle had suspected them of being behind the execution at the primary school, a conclusion that Sherlock agrees with. But why haven’t they taken credit for ridding the world of “monstrous Alphas”?

 

Are they waiting until public opinion is such in their favour that they are not in danger of any real persecution?

 

Or did Simon Whitewell’s involvement tarnish their design? Simon Whitewell was, after all, not an Alpha and his only crime was his participation in John’s kidnapping, for which he was already serving his time in prison.

 

If the executions are personal, then who insisted that Simon Whitewell should be included? Was it Glen Reese?

He’s been dead for almost two years and there were far more likely candidates for his scorn. John, for one.  Was Simon Whitwell just a convenient victim, since Mycroft had absconded John to a safety?

 

Why was the group so loyal to Reese’s choice that they’d uphold it even after he was dead? And why were there only three victims when there were five members of the group?

 

The questions gnaw at him until he feels the physical pain of it sharp and prickling behind his eyes. The sensation is so unfamiliar that it almost makes him worry for the extent of his head injury, even if John had told him he would be fine in a couple of days.

 

He nods off for a while, caught in the strange world of half asleep and half aware, where he’s not certain if he can remember the nurse checking in on him, fiddling with his IV and writing something on his chart. He thinks Mycroft is there too, speaking in a low voice on his phone, his tone terse and vigilant.

 

When he does wake, hours later he thinks, the chair is occupied by Lestrade and a stack of thick police folders.

 

“Ah, sleeping beauty awakes.” There’s a teasing undercurrent to Lestrade’s voice that does little to mask his concern. Sherlock blinks the room into clarity and takes stock of Lestrade’s tense posture, the whatever-o’clock shadow dusting his jaw and the rumpled lapels of his shirt where he has tugged at his tie. A press conference then, one that hadn’t gone well.

 

“Another murder?” Sherlock asks.

 

Lestrade shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “A suicide though some might call it murder. The jurisdiction is still a bit unclear. Can you can hold a mob chanting for a man to jump out of his window liable when he does just that?”

 

“An Alpha,” Sherlock states.

 

“Thirty two years old, he served a six-month-sentence for sexual assault on a minor when he was seventeen years old. Doctor Fenway’s name is noted in the case file for the defence. He was given a lenient sentence because Fenway said he’d been in…what do you call it?” Lestrade grimaces, unable to form the words and Sherlock does not even want to entertain them, not even in the privacy of his own head. It’s an occurrence so seldom that it’s almost considered a medical anomaly. Thankfully, he’s been spared the embarrassment of experiencing it himself.

 

“Was his name on the List?”

 

“Yeah,” Lestrade rubs his jaw. “Number thirty. Probably, there’s going to be more… stuff like this, we’re lucky that there haven’t been already. Some of the crimes published on the List are… well, they’d make any sane individual angry.”

 

“We still haven’t determined how Edward Blithley came to be in possession of this list of crimes.”

 

“No,” Lestrade sighs, “But Yu found something interesting in the victim’s financial records.” He places an open folder into Sherlock’s waiting hands.

 

“Two thousand paid to a travel company on Friday,” Lestrade explains even as Sherlock is busy reaching the very same conclusion. “The company doesn’t exist, of course, and the rest of their accounts were emptied in the early mornings of Sunday.”

 

“When they were most likely being strapped up in the gallows,” Sherlock adds and Lestrade nods. “So, those incisions were probably made to make them talk, give up their accounts information.”

 

“Who was the recipient?”

 

“Yu traced it to some off-shore account in the Cayman Isles, she said it was probably a shell-to-a-shell company, that it might be impossible to figure out who exactly collects the money.”

 

“It’s interesting because it would make the motive a monetary one,” Sherlock muses aloud.

 

“It just makes me very confused,” Lestrade says and interrupts Sherlock’s retort with a raised hand. “If it was an execution which, according to John’s contention, was done to give it the appearance of legitimacy, and you add that it was done out of a personal motive, what do these transactions mean?”

 

“They could disagree on the motive.”

 

Lestrade arches an eyebrow and Sherlock realizes that John hasn’t told him everything about their meeting with Lee Finkle. Sherlock fills in the gaps and by the time he’s done with his postulation that the actor is Edward Blithely, Lestrade’s eyebrows are battling his hairline for dominance of his forehead.

 

“And she didn’t say their names?”

 

“They’ve gone out of their way to make sure we’re not going to identify them,” Sherlock murmurs.

 

“Shite. Maybe Edward Blithely will cave under pressure?”

 

“If he’s a man to easily give in, he wouldn’t have been chosen to do the television broadcast. You should, of course, put him under surveillance immediately. He might lead us to the rest of the group though I doubt they’d risk contact now that they know Lee Finkle has spoken to us.”

 

Lestrade scratches his cheek. “If Finkle’s files were destroyed, I’m not sure which solutions remain for us….”

 

“We should check the prison records for anybody who visited Simon Whitewell.”

 

“You think it’s probable that somebody from the group visited him?”

 

Sherlock closes the files and shoves them towards Lestrade, who catches them just in time to stop them from sliding over the edge of the bed.

 

“It is possible,” Sherlock says in a manner that doesn’t make it all too obvious that he’s grasping at straws. “I also want to visit the crime scene at Finkel’s practice.”

 

“As soon as you’re well,” Lestrade admonishes. “I’ve received very specific instructions from John.”

 

Sherlock huffs and burrows deeper into the hospital bed. If Lestrade is surprised by the lack of complaints, he doesn’t show it. 

 

 

 

Sherlock is released from hospital the next morning with strict instructions to take it easy the next couple of days and to contact them immediately should he feel nauseous, vertigo or experience any trouble with his vision. Sherlock makes his promises, points out that he’s living with a doctor and a few minutes later he summons a taxi, giving the driver the address to the late Finkle’s address. John remains quiet the entire journey, but it’s the content kind of quiet that isn’t necessary to fill with small talk.

 

Lestrade is waiting for them at the crime scene, wrapped up against the cold in a way that suggests that Molly had a hand in determining his attire. He hands John a paper cup of coffee and manages to give Sherlock a cursory nod before the consulting detective stalks over the police tape.

 

“The fire department has determined that it’s safe, there’s no real structural damage,” Lestrade says, holding the tape up for John to pass underneath. “The arsonist used gasoline to help the fire spread; his main target was the office and what we believe to be the filing cabinets.”

 

John takes a sip of his coffee and lets the warm liquid slide pleasantly down to his stomach. “Is that where Finkle was found, in her office?”

 

“Yes, she had already been shot. Interestingly enough, it was the same gun used to kill Fenway.”

 

John’s memory supplies the image of Fenway, bloodied, beaten and tied to his chair, gunshot wounds staining his body.

 

“Do you think Glen Reese held on to the gun, somehow, and then gave it to a member of the group?”

 

“It seems the only logical explanation,” Lestrade murmurs.

 

Obviously Moriarty’s version of the calling card. It’s the second clue he’s left since the note on Sherlock’s pillow calling the end to their previous game and announcing the start of an entirely different one. Why is he advertising his involvement in this way? Is he showing them that he still has strings to pull? Or does he think they are moving too slowly? Is he increasing the stakes?

 

“I recognize that look on your face,” Lestrade tells John with a sigh. “Sherlock looked much the same. This Moriarty is like, what did Sherlock call him… a spider?”

 

“Something like that, yes,” John mutters.

 

“Sherlock seems to think it’s Moriarty’s way of telling us he’s still alive and that he’s paying attention.”

 

The thought makes John queasy and his steps into Finkle’s home are uneasy. Suddenly, Sherlock’s hand is on his arm, and John leans into his touch.

 

Sherlock lowers his voice so only John can hear him. “Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine,” John says and gives Sherlock’s left hand a reassuring squeeze. Sherlock doesn’t seem quite convinced and John wonders how much of it is the detective deducing the contents of his mind and how much is the Alpha acting instinctively to sooth the Omega.

 

John pushes his thoughts to the back of his mind the moment they step into Finkle’s blackened waiting room, seeing angry slants of soot against the walls and the wrinkled remains of former furniture. John’s nose rebels against the gasoline fumes and the scent of burnt plastic, smoke and water.

 

“They really didn’t want to risk anything surviving the inferno,” Sherlock says.

 

“The office is even worse,” Lestrade says and leads them through an open door on the right.

 

It looks like every doctor’s office John’s ever seen; an imposing desk under large windows, an office chair slightly higher than the two visitor’s chairs it’s facing. On the walls are the dirty remains of Finkle’s pictures and diplomas.

 

“There’s a small closet that was used to store her files,” Lestrade explains and gestures towards to the charred remains of the door. “Not much left to see.”

 

Sherlock stands in the doorway and John manages to catch a glimpse over his shoulder of a shamble of black metal cabinets edged with white. It’s not possible for anything to have survived the blaze.

 

“You’ve searched the rest of the premises?”

 

“With a fine-toothed comb,” Lestrade promises.

 

“Walk me through the original crime scene,” Sherlock asks and the two of them wander over to the desk where Finkle’s body was discovered, leaving John alone.

 

Finkle kept her office on the first floor and used the second story for her personal quarters. While Sherlock and Lestrade discuss the details of the body’s position, John decides to make himself useful and sets out to investigate the rest of the house.

 

The second floor looks less damaged, but where the fire has failed to destroy everything, water has done its part. In the kitchen, John finds cracked plates and china, the remains of a fridge and a stove, a kitchen table with two chairs and very little else. The living and sleeping rooms are in an equally dismal state. Sooty furniture and soggy carpets, books thrown haphazardly onto the floor by the investigating officers. There are no pictures and the only thing of note is a massive television in the centre of the living room with a single armchair in front of it. Finkle, it seems, lived a rather lonely existence.

 

The backyard is small, but intimate, and offers a rare chance of solitude in the middle of London. John sees the remains of the crime scene technicians work: the imprints of the tags they use to denote items of interest and the careful pathways laid out to secure footprints. The garden mirrors the interior’s bland design. There are a few pots of flowers, an ornament cat made of stone of all things, and an iron wrought bench. Standing by the main entrance are Sherlock Holmes and Sally Donovan, engaged in a conversation that is mostly Sally making agitated gestures, her back curled like an angry cat’s, while Sherlock is ignoring her in favour of tapping out something on his phone. Well, John’s phone.

 

John stuffs his cold hands into his pockets and crosses the distance to stand next to Sherlock.

 

“We’ve been over this garden several times,” Sally says with a huff, “there isn’t anything left to find.”

 

“Hello, Sally,” John says. Sally spins around, her eyes assessing, sweeping over him as if she’s not really sure she can trust what she’s seeing.

 

“Hello, John Watson. I wish I could say I’m surprised to see you, but where Sherlock Holmes goes, you are likely to follow.”

 

John doesn’t find any barbs in Sally’s words and the careful smile she offers him is genuine. He leans back on his heels, his gaze landing on the strange ornamental cat decidedly out of place among the flower pots.

 

“He does need his blogger.” It’s a feeble joke, but Sally’s nose crinkles in mirth at his attempt at humour. Sherlock makes a considering noise.

 

“I’m going check the office again, I am certain somebody missed something.” Sherlock snaps the phone shut and shoves into his pocket. As far as veiled insults against the incompetency of the Yard, this one is so mild that John wonders what Sally said to make him lose his bluster. He watches Sherlock stride across the garden, and turns to Sally, prepared to have it out with her, but finds himself suddenly disarmed by the tilt of her head and the wry twist of her mouth.

 

“Well, don’t let him know I said so, but it’s good to have him back.”

 

“Sure is,” John breathes and frees his hands from his pockets. They share an awkward silence before John breaks it, “you worked on this crime scene?”

 

“I did. First on the scene as soon as the fire department gave us access. We’ve had ten men combing over every inch of this place, but the only thing we found was Finkle’s remains in her office. Ever seen a burned body? Sheesh, they’re far creepier than bloaters.”

 

John grimaces at the mental image supplied by his experience in the military and turns his attention to the cat figure. He can’t help but feel that there is something familiar about it. That he’s seen it before somewhere. “What about that thing?”

 

“The cat?” Sally asks, following John’s gaze. “Oh, that’s just a lawn ornament.”

 

It’s not, John thinks.

 

“D’you mind?” He nods his head towards the cat figure and Sally gives him permission with a casual shrug.

 

He walks slowly towards it as if the thing is actually alive and in danger of leaping away at any moment. He suddenly wishes he had a Mind Palace of his own so that he could revisit the place where he’s seen the ornament before.

 

It’s a weather-worn thing, the features hardly visible though distinctively cat-like in the round shape of its curled body, tail snug against its side. John circles it carefully, fully aware of Sally’s curious eyes on him and worries about making a fool of himself. He gives the figure a nudge with a foot and feels it wobble against his shoes.

 

Decidedly hollow.

 

“Did the cat do something to you, John?” Sally calls out cheerfully.

 

“Just wondering if it was hollow.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

He can hear the slight lilt in the intonation of her voice. She leaves the patchwork and walks across the grass towards him, standing next to him and peering at the cat.

 

The cat stares back in stony silence.

 

“Hollow, you say?”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

Sally kneels and fishes out a pair of plastic gloves from her pockets, she slips them on. She hums, and then grabs the base of the figure and carefully tips it over. There is a very distinctive sound of something rattling inside the figure. She slides her hand inside and slowly pulls out again, clutching a plastic bag in her hand. Inside the bag, there is a dark, sleek box.

 

“What is that?”

 

“That,” Sally’s grin is matching the cat’s, “is an external hard drive. I think Finkle managed to hide it.”

 

John stares thoughtfully at the cat figure. “No,” he says slowly, “I think Glen Reese did.”

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hundred thanks to all my readers, I really appreciate every kudos and comment.
> 
> As always, three cheers to my beta reader, CowMow for sticking with me and doing such a superawesome job.
> 
> We are actually getting close to the end, so I thought I´d try my hand on some requests/prompts. If there is something you´d like to read, give me a nudge here on tumblr (friolerofiction) and it might end up in the story or as a one-shot/timestamp thingy.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter and that you will have a happy weekend.

**Warning:** Graphic description of a crime/crimescene. Gore.

 

**Chapter seventeen.**

 

“There are thousands of files.” Yu Kosaki gestures to the computer screen where a blue bar is creeping slowly towards the 100% mark. The countdown tells them that there are still almost five hours to go before the copy is complete.

 

“They go back over twenty years. There are video files, audio files, image files and tons of documents. Some of them don’t even have names, just numbers, and letters. It’s going to take four men at least a week to sort through it all, and you haven’t even told us what you’re looking for….”

 

There’s a quick rap against the door and the trio turn to stare at the flushed constable in the doorway (former pianist,  recently transferred to the Met, lives with a female roommate who just had a baby). Something that she sees in their eyes makes her wince. Sherlock notices her uncertaitny in the unhappy lilt of her lips before she stumbles through her words.

 

“Sorry….erm, I got-I’m new, I’m looking for the…ah….Sergeant Howe and the…riot squad.”

 

“Two floors down,” Lestrade says, “room 116.”

 

“Thank you,” she mumbles, disappearing behind the closed door.

 

“You could start with the names of Blithely’s list,” Sherlock taps Kosaki’s computer screen. “It seems likely that this was the source of the information he released.”

 

“So, you think Glen Reese gave Finkle the hard drive?” Lestrade is unable to hide the skepticism in his voice. “When would he have had the time to do that? We have a tight timeline for his activities from the day Fenway was murdered to-”

 

“He had plenty of opportunities to hide it before he continued his kidnapping charade,” Sherlock replies before Lestrade can finish his useless conjectures. “Or he could have hidden it there during one of his visits as Finkle’s patient.”

 

“And Finkle didn’t notice that there was suddenly a cat ornament in her garden?”

 

"None of your men thought it out of place,” Sherlock says with poorly disclosed pride on John’s behalf. “Glen Reese was part of the support group and we know he had access to Fenway’s computer and files”

 

“Alright,” Lestrade concedes, although it isn’t a difficult fight to give up. For the first time since he stared at the three suspended corpses, perhaps since he saw Glen Reese’s decapitate head on a slab, things are  making sense.

 

“If we summarize what we know so far…. Finkle arranges for Glen Reese to take part in a Support Group for people who have been the victim of abuse from Alpha. We know that Edward Blithely is in the same group. There is also a nurse, a lawyer and a marine…..” Lestrade turns his eyes to Yu Kosaki’s computer screen. Yu slides sideways to give the detective inspector a better view of her desktop even if the only thing on it is the countdown of the flickering files.

 

“Could you search the files for the keywords, nurse, lawyer and marine?”

 

“Sure,” Yu Kosaki scribbles the words down on a post-it. “You are looking for people employed in these professions?”

 

“Yes, but not necessarily Fenway’s patients,” Sherlock starts only for John to finish his sentence. “They would be victims of an altercation with an Alpha, or the extended family. Though, I suppose in such cases their names might be protected….”

 

John is standing close to Sam, who is sitting in the large window frame. A London cab toy is chased across the glass by a wooden toy train while John keeps a watchful eye on Sam’s teetering balance. Blue lights dance against the window as police cars  pull out of the garage and onto the streets. Sam pauses his game to point excitedly at the scene unfolding below him. John keeps a hand on his shoulder as he peers over the crown of Sam’s head. He signs something that Sherlock cannot make out.

 

“Well, we know how respectful Fenway was of his patients’ rights to privacy,” Sherlock says, sarcasm lacing his voice while he forces his attention back to the case at hand. “If his personal files are on here, we will find that he hasn’t bothered to protect them.”

 

“Say we find their names on the hard drive,” Lestrade interjects, “we still don’t have any evidence connecting them to the murders at the school, the assault on the platform, the death of Finkle, or….if these are even connected, the murders of Glen Reese and Jane Hill."

 

Lestrade looks at Sherlock. He doesn’t miss the quick and quiet exchange between John and the consulting detective; the way their eyes lock before pulling away, John to look at their son, Sherlock to Yu Kosaki’s computer screen.

“They were the prequel, the warm-up to the main show. I also imagine they were….convenient, as Moriarty isn’t one to leave anything unfinished.”

 

“I believe you when you say that Moriarty is involved,” Lestrade starts, holding up his hands in a placating gesture as soon as he sees the way Sherlock’s brows narrows, “…and I also believe you when you say that Moriarty needed to...clean up loose ends, Glen Reese and Jane Hill. But why wait over two years to do so? Why did he want our…or, rather, perhaps, your attention now? What’s changed?”

 

“The game,” is Sherlock’s answer.

“ You said Moriarty called you out to come and play, but what game? Your cat-and-mouse-let-us-see-who-is-the-smartest-game? Why is he interested in playing a new game now?”

 

Sherlock clasps his hands at the small of his back. Lestrade is asking the  same questions that have been haunting him for days. Before….

 

Before..

Before John and Sam and all these other people who’ve made themselves at home in his life, he lived for the thrill of the chase, the riddle, and the mystery only he could solve. Now he finds no excitement in not knowing the answer. There’s no thrill. Just frustration, doubt and fear that if he doesn’t figure it out the people he care about will get hurt.

 

Maybe he should have accepted Mycroft’s offer and sent them out of the country. John would be against it, but Sherlock is confident he’ll be susceptible to Sherlock’s pleas.

 

But he won’t be able to solve it without John. John has been instrumental in recognizing and finding clues and hints that have led them to this spot. He doesn’t think he’ll ever admit it, but John is the true conductor to his brilliance. He has shown Sherlock so many nuances in the world which the old him would have dismissed as trivial, uninteresting and unimportant.

 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade tries.

 

“Even if we do not yet have any evidence to connect Blithely, or the rest of the Group to the murders, he will worry that Finkle told us something. He’ll reveal his true intentions soon.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“His appearance on television and the next add campaign. He’s rallying popular opinion, but he won’t be able to keep them under his banner for long if all he can offer is….vague hatred of Alphas.  He has thousands of people talking about what a danger Alphas are to society, but some will want him to do more than just talking about it. They will need directions to a distinguishable goal."

 

Lestrade nods, but he looks anything but pleased at Sherlock’s conclusion.

 

“So, you think Blithely is the brains behind it all?”

 

Sherlock thinks back to Blithely’s first appearance on national television. His studied presentation of the cruelty of his childhood. The way his eyes seemed to search for somebody behind the camera. He hums and then nods.

“So what, we wait for his next step?”

“At least for the next five hours or so,” Sherlock says with a nod to the computer screen. “We need to identify the other members of the group, they might cave to pressure.”

 

“Fine, right,” Lestrade combs his hand over his hair. “What do you want to do while we wait? Should we look over the original autopsy reports or the findings from Finkle’s home? I think there’s something-”

 

“We’re going home,” Sherlock declares, “call me when the results are ready.”

 

 

Outside the air sings with the promise of frost and John brokers no arguments from Sam about the necessity of the wooly hat. There is, however, a brief squabble about the necessity of mittens. John looks determined when he forces them onto Sam’s hands while Sam scowls and glares at the things.

 

“We lost the gloves,” John explains with a small smile. Sherlock’s thoughts go straight to all the possible places to buy gloves for small hands so that Sam can talk.

 

They start making their way home, and Sam tucks his hand into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock can feel his tiny digits through the layers of his leather gloves and Sam’s knitted mittens. His hand is warm and soft and Sherlock doesn’t think he’s ever held anything that delicate and fragile.

 

It is a slow stroll down the Buckingham Gate Street. Sam jumps over cracks in the pavement, veering around the fallen leaves and trash that the wind hustles down the street. They stop for a moment to study the palace, while John explains to Sam that the absence of the flag means that the Queen isn’t home, but yes, her six dogs probably are and then proceeds to baffle Sherlock by naming them all.

 

It’s a long walk back to Baker Street, but despite the slight chill, it’s a nice afternoon. People are hurrying through Green Park while Sam and John are enjoying their leisurely pace.  Sherlock contemplates the possible restaurants between the Yard and their destination, ruling out those unsuitable for Sam. Would he like Chinese or Indian? What is safe for him to eat? Will he be able to free his phone from his pocket with his left hand so he can search for his answers without letting go of Sam?

 

Several times they hear the wailing of police cars and see the flickers of blue lights careening down the streets. Sam points at them, waving his free hand until they disappear from view.

 

“I wonder what’s going on,” John says after the fourth police car drives by “maybe there’s been an accident?”

 

Sherlock’s phone chimes and a second later John’s does the same. John frees his phone from his pocket. Sherlock’s grip on Sam’s hand tightens as he reads the concern in John’s frown.

 

“It’s Lestrade,” John says, “he tells us to keep away from Oxford Street. The police are having difficulty controlling the crowd. They are worried there might be a riot.”

 

“What’s going on?” Sherlock pulls Sam closer to his side, just in time to save him from a group of teenagers running down the street with eager shouts and curses. They are dressed in black, with scarves wrapped around their faces, which have nothing to do with protecting them from the cold. Right at their heels is a group of boisterous men, knocking shoulders and waving their arms, uncaring of the people around them.

 

Sam looks at Sherlock with large, anxious eyes, extending his arms. Sherlock hoists him up, stifling his wince until he has secured Sam against this chest, keeping his weight off his cast.

 

“According to twitter, people are urged to gather at Bond Street and Green Park station for a spontaneous protest march past Buckingham and down to Parliament Square.”

 

“Protesting what?”

 

Sherlock studies John’s face in the light from his phone, and notices the tightness around his eyes, the white line of his lips.

 

“There was videoblog of a young man detailing the physical and mental abuse his mother and older sister suffered from his father, a sir Albert Hugh. Alpha and a MP. They are demanding his immediate removal from office.”

 

“He wasn’t on Blithely’s list."

 

“We should head on home before we’re caught in the crowds.”

 

They pass Green Park tube station. It is packed with people milling around at the entranceway despite the officers attempts to get them to move out and to let people out off the station. John remembers one time when he was eight years old and the tube lines had closed due to an accident. He had been standing on the escalators, holding Harriet and his dad’s hand when the news crackled through the speakers. Within seconds, the underground was teeming with people trying to find alternate means of transport. The air had been stifling with irritated curses and for fifteen terrifying minutes he had lost the grip on his father’s hand and Harriet’s, leaving him separated from anyone he knew. Some crowds have a vicious reptilian mind of their own, one he doesn’t want Sam to witness.

 

When they reach Curzon Street they try to hail a cab, but Sherlock’s magical control over the licensed taxi drivers fails.

  
“No good.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. Traffic seems to be at a stand still,” John observes.

 

People have abandoned the crowded sidewalk and spilled into the streets, uncaring of the traffic they are obstructing. A few drivers are honking their horns and one driver throws something after a young man, clad in dark, who crosses the street by jumping onto the hood of his car.  The evening is charged with angry and eager shouts, of the sound of music from open windows and the repeated squeal of car horns. In Baker Street, a bus driver has completely given up completing his route. The doors are wide open, the bus empty and the driver, an elderly gentleman, is sipping something from a thermos that John’s nose knows isn’t entirely legal for a driver to consume.

 

Sam has one finger hooked into his lower lip, the other hand clutching the collar of Sherlock’s coat, both mittens lost and his hat has slid off to lie pressed between his back and Sherlock’s chest. His face is white with terror and John wishes they could stop somewhere so he could try and make sense of it all to Sam, but Sherlock strides forth with unparalleled determination.

 

“Should we try the side roads,” John suggests, shouldering past three men sharing a drink from a brown paper bag, “maybe there will be less of a crowd?”

 

He feels Sherlock’s hand curl around his and John stares at the long fingers over his as if sheltering him. Sherlock tugs on his hand and pulls him along, hands still joined. John’s eyes are drawn to Sherlock’s back and even through the thick layer of his coat he can see the anxious twitch of his shoulders, taste the scent of his worry. Sensing Sherlock’s unease makes his own heart quick its pace. In the back of his mind he knows it’s just a chemical reaction to the Alpha’s state of mind. The knowledge does little to calm him.

 

John has to jog to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides as the detective veers left, then right, then left again. He pushes through a small restaurant filled with angry Asian couples and they emerge in a back ally. John has no idea where they are, but he can still hear the angry buzz of the crowd, the sound of bottles smashing against the pavement, tires screeching to a halt, shouts and cheers.

 

Eventually, they emerge onto Park Street and hurry past security officers and constables stationed outside the U.S Embassy and emerge onto the broad road leading to Marble Arch station. There are hundreds of people here as well, moving at glacial pace towards Bond Street. Some are carrying banners and sign posts with slurred slogans, others have actual torches and John wonders just how spontaneous this protest really is. Is this another part of the game?

 

Sherlock and Sam aren’t the only ones with an anxious child clutching at their parents. A young mother is hurrying off with a screaming toddler in a stroller while a couple of red-faced tourists are desperately scanning the map while their three children hang on their legs.

 

Their progress towards 221 Baker Street is slow, but once they make it to Seymour Street, the crowds are thinning and the traffic is slowly dredging itself back to its regular afternoon pace. When they reach the doorstep the first drops of rain splash against the pavement.

 

Sherlock doesn’t stop until they can close the door to 221 B behind them. Only then does he take a deep breath as if getting ready to say something, but it he lets it out again and lowers Sam to floor. He starts to tug at his own scarf, his cheeks red while his eyes are the same color as the darkening clouds outside. John places a hand on his arm and feels his muscles soothe under his touch. He wants to offer some consolation to ease the myriad of emotions swaying in Sherlock’s eyes, but Sam’s icy grip finds his hand, tugging him out of his thoughts.

 

John crouches down in the corridor and untangles Sam from his hat, scarf, and coat. Sam clings to his shoulders, even as John yanks off his boots and frees him from the thick sweater he had insisted on this morning. He runs a hand through his son’s curls; his hair damp with sweat and his shirt is sticking to his body.

 

 _Let’s take a bath,_ John signs, _and find some dry clothes before you catch a chill._

 

 _Tea_ , Sam signs and tugs at John’s sweater, _I want tea._

 

 _Sure_ , John answers with a cautious frown, _But bath first._ Sam’s never had anything but pretend tea before, but he thinks it will be alright with a small cup if he makes it milky and without sugar.

 

John draws Sam a bath warm enough to tint his cheeks. He dresses him in a soft pyjama and bundles him up in a blue bathrobe afterwards; his inky curls still a little damp. By the time they sit down around the kitchen table for some tea and toast, Sam has forgotten all about his tremulous trip from the Yard. He is happily chatting about his tea and toast and how he mustn’t get jam in his hair, but still manages to get it in John’s.  Sherlock watches their interaction with his thoughts far away, probably on the case, or working through his own reaction. Later, after Sam and Sherlock have worked with a puzzle and read a book on exotic animals, Sam brushes his teeth and lets John tuck him into bed, satisfied with only reading one bedtime book. Sam snuggles up under the covers with his favourite stuffed toy dog tucked under his chin. John watches him drift off to sleep and leaves the door open so a sliver of light can seep through it.

 

“He’s out,” John says and tries to find the words to approach Sherlock, but the detective’s eyes are glued to the television screen,

 

Edward Blithley sits prim and proper in the guest chair, one leg folded over the other, hands clasped at the knees. His back is ramrod straight, shoulders back and chin held high. He’s dressed in a smooth gray suit with a calm blue shirt, chosen by the BBC stylist to match his eyes.

“It’s been an interesting few days for you, Mr. Blithely,” the television shows host says. Her name is Alice Gardner and she is dressed in a similar somber tone to lend credence to the importance of this particular episode. The truth is that Alice Gardner’s show, Evening, London, is limping on its last legs. There’s been two seasons of dwindling ratings following the embarrassing Birkham Scandal that almost cost Alice her journalism career, if not for her quick thinking in pinning the blame on a lower level research assistant. How her producer got Edward Blithely to agree to appear on her show when almost every media mogul is vying for his attention, she’ll never know. She’s just grateful for this last rope that’s been thrown to her, even if she knows it is intended that she’ll either climb her way out of the ditch or hang herself.

 

“Yes, it has,” Edward says, his face folding itself into the mien of a man troubled and concerned, “though we’re grateful for all the attention that’s been given to our cause, we’re deeply sorry that some has deemed it necessary to mete out their own….version of justice.” There’s a slight twitch to his left eye, and Alice makes a note to move the spotlight so they don't blind her guest

“You’re speaking, of course, of the recent…” she searches for the right word, settles for something neutral sounding, “violences.”

 

“I am,” Edward nods, “we’ve already seen one such incident ending with the tragic loss of life and this evening, several were wounded and several business have had their property destroyed during riots. We still do not know the consequences of what happened…. _is_   in fact still happening in London this evening and I fear we will not emerge from it unscathed.”

 

“Do you feel any guilt for these events, Mr. Blithely? After all, we cannot deny the riots have been sparked by your campaign.”

 

Edward presses his lips to a thin line and uncrosses his legs, gripping the armrests tightly as he forces his words through a thigh smile. “Make no mistake, we do not, in any way, shape, or form support violence of any kind. Our cause is a peaceful one.”

 

Alice flips her hair over her shoulder and straightens her back to mirror Edward’s posture. “Several critics have commended your use and control of the social medias in your campaign and showing the strength these media have over our political life. There are also many who admire your….courage to use your own story to personalize the cause you are championing and the way you have everyone’s attention before you declare your demands. How long have you been planning this? How much of it is planning?”

 

 

His gaze is fixed right on hers when he answers, or so it would seem to the hundred thousand viewers watching the show, when in truth, it is pinned on the decorative studio background.

 

“I spent most of my childhood living in fear of my Alpha step-father, and whenever I approached any level authority for help, I was always told that it was natural for Alphas to act in this manner. To dominate, control, that he could not be held accountable for his actions.  There are hundreds, if not thousands of cases like mine, of leniency given by the courts if the case even reaches a magistrate’s desk that is. A few months probation for rape, a restraining order for repeated sexual assaults of a minor, six months for murder. We have in our midst dangerous predators and our way of dealing with them has been to just accept this as an actuality.”

Alice hears the murmur of consent buzzing through the microphone in hear ear, and she tosses her head back, hoping to get her producers to quiet down so she can focus on the man in front of her.

 

“Do you believe your list of demands will help improve the situation? Is it our right to…. discriminate against certain individuals due to their biology? Should not the law be just for all?”

 

“That is exactly my point,” Edward leans forward in his chair and Alice feels her body bend towards him, even if it must look ridiculous, the two of them huddled together as if Edward is parting with a great secret when they are on national broadcast.

 

“We have been differentiating Alphas for decades, but the laws have always distinguished in their favor. Our list of demands is only seeking to remove this leniency given to Alphas who commit serious crimes and to reduce the dangerous influence they have on our society.”

 

“Would you care to repeat your demands to those of our viewers who have not had a chance to review them on your web page today?”

 

“Certainly,” Edward smiles and leans back in the chair again, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled at his stomach. “Firstly, as I’ve already said, we want to remove clemency on all crimes committed by Alphas during….hormonal imbalance,” he doesn’t even try to hide his distaste at the words, but quickly resumes his neutral tone. “We want to make Bonding illegal, so we can have a constitutional marriage instead, wherein we will not permit Alphas to assert more than a legal claim on their spouses. The consequences of these Bonds are far too dangerous for this practice to be allowed to continue. We want the Alpha Registry to be available to the public so that people may know of the possible dangers inherent in their neighborhood. We also want to give people the legal right to refuse to sell or let their property to an Alpha.  Finally, we want all Alphas removed from positions of office and authority. They’ve wrecked havoc on our economy, and have been the cause of a massive corruption scandal in the police. Too long have we allowed them to govern vital institutes without question. Finally, we want to bring back the death penalty.”

 

Alice winces at the sudden screech on the headphones and does her best to fight back to her smile. She can practically feel the viewer-rating trickle in.

 

“These are rather radical suggestions,” she says, “do you really think parliament will accept such drastic changes to the constitution? Capital punishment has been abolished since the 1960s”

 

Edward’s smile is bright and sharp when he answers, “I think the government has a duty to adhere to the will of the people.”

 

“And is this the will of the people?” Alice asks, “as of now you have a couple of thousand followers, but many have predicted that this is a nothing more than a gasoline light campaign. You may burn brightly, but it will quickly dwindle and die.”

 

His smiles grow teeth and there is something in his eyes that suddenly makes Alice feel like she’s sitting next to a matryoshka doll and that only the first layer has been exposed.

 

“We may seem like a small party,” Edward says, “and even if we are, as you say, a gasoline fire, remember that it doesn’t take much more than a small spark for the fire to spread.”

 

Alice swallows around the sudden lump in her throat and steels herself to match the brute force of Edward’s gaze. She was saved from having to try by her producers buzzing in her ear, telling her to move on to the next segment.

 

 

 

By the time the program ends, Sherlock already has his laptop open on Edward Blithely’s webpage. His list of demands is the first thing they see, with a steady increase of comments in the discussion section bellow. Some comments are nothing but a string of swear words pointing out the madness of his suggestions, others are applauding him for giving Alphas their just due. John can’t help but think that his father would approve of Edward’s suggestions.

 

“Bloody hell,” John mutters, “if he manages to rally all these people, who are usually content to rant on the internet, his case might really have some serious support.”

 

“Until we expose him as the murderer we know he is,” Sherlock says.

 

“But we don’t know if Edward was actually at the crime scene. Yes, I know it would require at least two people to commit those crimes, and that one most likely had a medical degree, judging from the amount of Stesolid administered to the victims and that one of the people in the Group supposedly worked as a nurse, but-”

 

 

“…That still leaves the lawyer and the marine,” Sherlock finishes, “even so, Edward can hardly claim ignorance. Glen Reese told Finkle that the group was planning something big, which would indicate that they were all in on it.”

 

“Maybe this is the something big,” John says with a wave to the computer screen, “maybe they weren’t connected to the murders at all.”

“I would be inclined to agree,” Sherlock murmurs, “if not for Simon Whitewell. He was placed there solely for our attention, for us to make the connections we are-”

 

“-Well, what if he’s just a distraction? Could he not have been placed there to-”

 

“The prison transfers papers were made using my fake signature of Lestrade’s signature.”

 

John blinks at him, “what?”

 

“Every signature has…. A fingerprint, the way we write certain letters, where we put the pressure, the curls and lines. Lestrade recognized mine on his name written on the transfers paper that put Simon Whitewell into the care of the still elusive driver who took him to the elementary school to be hanged.”

 

“Hang on,” John raises his hand, grateful for Sherlock’s silence allowing him to catch up with the detective’s line of reasoning. “How does somebody fake….a fake signature?”

Sherlock avoids his question for a moment, “I don’t know. I would assume they found a copy of my writing Lestrade’s name on something and-”

 

“Do you go around signing his name often?” There’s amusement in John’s voice and Sherlock’s lips curl of their own accord.

 

“Only when I am signing for his credit card statements, for the card he never knew I... nicked.”

 

“Alright,” John huffs a laugh, “….so, that’s still…I mean, I imagine you didn’t sign Lestrade’s name when you were…abroad.”  John struggles past the last word and Sherlock keeps his gaze on the computer screen.

 

“No. I assume Moriarty attained a copy of it somewhere and kept it for his convenience.”

 

 

Sherlock’s confidence does little to comfort John. If Moriarty had kept the signature all these years, it meant that he never really bought Sherlock’s charade, that the entire ruse might not have been necessary after all. Sherlock pulls his gaze from the computer and takes in the steady calm of John’s body language, which could only mean that John was working through some unpleasant thoughts. It hurt more than it reasonable should and left a sullen, hollow feeling in his stomach. They seem to constantly skip over this unpleasant conversation that is always lurking in the shadows.

 

 

“John-” Sherlock tries, finally daring to close their distance and place a hand on the crook of John’s arm. He’s shaping the words in his mouth when there’s piercing wail that cuts to the marrow of his bones. John goes rigid for a heartbeat before he’s moving to Sam’s room. Sherlock remains seated for a tiny moment before he’s up as well, following after John.

 

Sam is sitting in his bed, bedspread in a pool on the floor, his hands balled into red fists while fat tears run down his cheek. As soon as he sees Sherlock he tosses the toy dog at him. John moves first to he windows and it takes Sherlock a second too long to realize that he’s actually looking for any signs of an intrusion. It makes him feel ridiculous for just standing there, so he moves down the corridor and across the flat to the entrance. The door is firmly locked and there’s not a sign of any trespassers. Still, his thundering heart doesn’t calm its wild flight before he’s checked all the windows in the apartment and reasoning that Mycroft’s surveillance would have alerted them if anything was amiss.

 

He regains control of his scattered wits and returns to Sam’s bedroom. John has gathered their son into his arms and moved away from the bed to the chair in the corner. He’s wrapped a blanket around him, running his hand slowly up and down Sam’s back, smoothing away the hiccups that’re making Sam’s body quiver.

 

“Nightmare,” John explains, “he’s had them a few times before.”

 

“Oh,” is all Sherlock manages to say. 

 

“Would you get some new pajamas, this one is soaked through.”

 

Sherlock hesitates before he bends down to pick up Sam’s toy, offering it to him. Sam’s face is red and his eyes are blotchy and he regards the toy with suspicion before he gathers it into his arms, holding it as if it’s a long lost friend.

 

By the time they’ve changed his pajamas and his bed, Sam’s tears have been reduced to quiet little whimpers. John gently wipes the dampness from his eyes before they turn to tears again, and smiles at him encouragingly. Sam is still clinging to him as John carries him across the room and to his bed and when he tries to coax him back between the sheets, Sam’s lower lip starts to tremble dangerously.

 

 _Don’t go,_ Sam pleads, maintaining his grip on John’s arm.

 _I’ll stay_ , John promises, _until you’re asleep._

 

He runs his hand across his hair; brushing his damp curls away from his eyes and watching his eyes fight the pull of sleep. The sight pulls at something in Sherlock’s chest and leaves him uncomfortably breathless. For the second time in a few minutes, Sherlock doesn’t know what to do and he wonders how long it will take to become acquainted with this feeling of helplessness. He can solve complicated murders from his kitchen table, but he wouldn’t have known how to solve Sam’s nightmare. He hates this sensation and because he doesn’t know what else to do, he, he goes to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

 

Sherlock returns a few minutes later with two steaming cups of tea, placing one carefully into John’s hand and stealing a glance at Sam. He’s still clutching at John’s hand. Clearly, sleep has done nothing to loosen up his grip.

 

“Thanks,” John says and takes a slow sip, mindful of the hot beverage. He caresses Sam’s back and watches as Sherlock lowers his long frame into the chair.

 

“Does he have nightmares often?”

 

“When he’s been sick,” John says, “or something new is going to happen, like the first visit to the dentist office or the hairdresser. Mrs. Kettle or Mycroft cuts his hair now.”

 

Sherlock makes a considering noise.

“He’s just in the age when he’s particularly prone to nightmares. Normal fears develop and his imagination is blossoming, this will naturally lead to some bad dreams.”

 

Sherlock digests this information and tries to recall his own childhood though much of it was deleted during the great purge at university. He might have a memory of Mycroft’s consoling voice tucked away in a corner of his memory palace. Before he can decide if he wants to investigate this further, his phone chimes with a message from Lestrade.

 

“They finished the transfer,” Sherlock says, “they are scanning it for potential viruses or anything that might decide to destroy a file if you try to open it. He is hopeful that they’ll have some information tomorrow.”

 

“It will be nice when we’re able to close this particular crime story,” John murmurs.

 

“We should take a trip,” Sherlock says, surprising himself with his own suggestion. But the longer the idea lingers in his mind, the more comfortable he gets with it. There are so many places he’d like to show John, even if not all of them might be suitable for Sam.

 

“A trip?” John echoes, “where would we go?”

 

“Paris,” Sherlock says immediately, “or somewhere in France. Mycroft has properties there.”

 

“Alright,” Sherlock hears the tired jawn in John’s voice, “sounds like a plan.”

 

“You shouldn’t sleep here, John, you’ll ruin your back.”

John struggles his way to consciousness, Sherlock’s blurry face in standing over him with his hands on his shoulders. Before John can dredge through his sleep-addled mind to formulate a response, Sherlock’s gently pulls him up from Sam’s bed. John’s back aches in protest, but he’s far too tired to care and he lets Sherlock lead him through the apartment and to his, their, bedroom. He unbuttons John’s cardigan and pulls it off him. He eases his shoes off as well before urging him onto the bed. John goes without protest, closing his eyes as soon as his head hits the pillow, the sheets cool and crisp against his skin. He half awakes a few seconds later when the bed dips. John lies still and listens to Sherlock’s breath. John’s hand finds his across the covers and squeezes. A beat later he feels the coarse fabric of the cast against his arm, and in the next Sherlock pulls him against his side and John lets himself sink into the feeling of Sherlock’s breath against the back of his neck. The even rhythm eases him into sleep, even if he thinks he misses Sherlock’s words to him, drifting on the tide of consciousness.

 

He wakes to Sam’s hands against his cheek, the scent of coffee and the curious sound of cooking. John blinks against the light. Early, he concludes from the angle of the rays. He scrubs a hand across his eyes and Sam’s smiling face becomes clear.

 

 _You’re not supposed to sleep with clothes on,_ he admonishes with a tug at John’s shirt.

 

 _You are quite correct_ , he yawns and sneaks his hand around Sam’s back and yanks him close enough to press a sloppy kiss to his chin. Sam giggles and fights him, half-heartedly and John lets him disentangle from the embrace

 _There is breakfast,_ he announces, _downstairs._

 

John pushes himself off the bed and stretches, feeling his bones and muscles click back into place. Ugh, he’s certainly not getting younger.

 

 _Breakfast_ , Sam signs, tugging on his sleeves again.

 

_Right, right. Who’s cooking this breakfast?_

 

Sam makes a sign that is somewhere between father and his name sign for Sherlock.

 

 _Really,_ John signs with a slight tremor in his hand, _I was so certain he didn’t know the meaning of the word._

 

 _Don’t be silly, daddy_ , Sam giggles. He wraps both his hands around John’s neck and rests his weight against John’s back, leaving him no choice than to offer him a piggyback ride

 

Sherlock stands at their stove, frying eggs, sausages, tomatoes and beans. Slices of bread have been put in a toaster rack John didn’t even know they had.

 

“You’re cooking,” John says, signing the words.

 

“I’m a scientist, John,” Sherlock says with the dignity of somebody who doesn’t have a dollop of red sauce on his chin, “cooking is the simplest form of science.”

 

“Uh-huh,” John eases Sam off his back and into his chair, tying a napkin around his neck.

 

“Lestrade has news, they think they’ve identified another member of the support group” Sherlock says as he slides the food from the pan elegantly onto John’s plate, “I said we’d meet him after breakfast.”

 

John tries to imagine Lestrade’s face at Sherlock turning down the news that might give them a proper break in the case for once, in order to stay home and do something as normal as having breakfast.

 

 _Soldiers,_ Sam insists, pointing at his toast and egg before he reaches for his cup, _and tea. Please,_ he adds with an afterthought.

“Something wrong?”

 

John realizes that he’s been staring too long and takes a sip of his coffee to stop his smile from reaching his eyes.

 

 

“No, everything is fine,” he says instead.

 

An hour later Mrs. Kettle arrives with one of the usual bodyguards to look after Sam and the flat. She promises that they’ll have a quiet day inside, and the words seem to relax Sherlock. They meet Mary in the hallway, dressed in a raincoat and carrying a large, brown bag.  She smiles when she sees them and gives a little wave in passing. 

 

This afternoon, London feels like it is suffering from a nasty hangover: everything seems slower, and not even the sun can dredge up the effort to properly brighten up the day. But the city is not the only one to have suffered; Lestrade looks like he’s gone two rounds with Tyson Fury.

 

“I didn’t know civil disturbances was your department,” John says.

“It was a all-available-officers kinda thing. Shite…” Lestrade combs a hand through his already messy hair. “It could easily have become pretty nasty. We’re lucky the rain sent most of them home.”

 

“You said you found something interesting on the hard drive,” Sherlock says impatiently, eager to move on to the things that are more important than complaining about riots.

 

“Yes, sir, of course.” Yu Kosaki gestures for them to take a seat around the conference table and then punches a button on a remote control, bringing to life a large television screen mounted on one wall.

 

“These are the files we found on the hard drive,” Yu Kosaki explains, “as you can see they are all named after some code. At first I thought there might be some way to break it, but then I looked at the dates the files were created. There’s a video file, here.”

 

She walks over to the monitor and taps the screen.

 

“This file was added on the same Sunday as the triple murder.”

 

John sees how Sherlock sits up just a little more alert, like a fox getting ready to pounce. “Play it.”

 

“The film lasts for about ten minutes,” Yu explains, her fingers running over a wireless keyboard, “and it’s obvious it has been put together from different segments.”

 

Yu hits the play button and the screen fills with the blurry image of something pinkish. It takes John a second to realize they’re looking at person’s mouth. The camera jostles around and in the background they can hear the sound of an car engine.

 

“Well, what do you say, gentleman? Do any of these omegas entice you?”

 

The camera zooms out for a moment and focuses on the contemplating face of Joseph Braithswort. He wets his lips, his eyes moving to watch something he’s holding in his hand. In the background they can just make out the eager face of Andrew Nash.

 

“I’ll have that one,” Joseph murmurs, “bitch number four. You can arrange it?”

 

“Sure! Anything you want.”

 

The screen goes black for a moment and Yu Kosaki pauses the movie.

The room has gone absolutely still, the air so thick John is sure he could cut it with a knife. Lestrade clears his throat with some effort.

 

“He’s looking at some sort of catalogue?”

Yu nods “I think so.”

“Bloody hell… Okay, show us the rest.”

 

The movie continues. This time the camera is handheld, causing the images to sway back and forth so badly that it almost makes John feel seasick. The image quality is poor, sometimes blurring the entire screen. Flashes of white fill the screen, until the camera is tilted downwards to show a naked man, his hands pulled backwards to be tied behind his back. Tendrils of blood seep down his thighs, and around his neck rests a thick and heavy-looking rope. He speaks with difficulty, like a man dying, but his eyes are desperately alive.

“…My name is Joseph Braitworth. I am an Alpha and a monster. I am to be held accountable for numerous illnesses inflicted on my employees. I knew they were working in unsafe environments, but I did not care because I thought them worthless and lesser human beings…. For….I…I frequently travel to…travel abroad to buy sexual favors from children and I…. “

 

His jaw trembles, as if he’s cold. A slimy mixture of tears and snot runs down his face, over his mouth. His next sentence is interrupted, however, by the resonating _Click_. Joseph’s face disappears from the camera, and the only thing left to fill the screen is the dangling rope.  

 

The screen is black for a second, before a new, terrified, face fills the screen. Andrew Nash’s chin is covered in blood and his mouth shakes so badly it’s difficult to understand what he’s saying.

 

“I am Andrew Nash. I am an Alpha. When…when I was eighteen years old I…I sexual assaulted and ab…abused my neighbors’ fourteen year old kid. I have c…committed similar crimes but never received due punishment because…because I am an Alpha and I cannot control my urges. I abused my wife for years and two...two years ago I pushed her down the stairs and… I’ve said it, I’ve said what you wanted, please let me-“

 

His face freezes in horror, and his body keels forward, only suspended by a rope.

 

John knows it’s Simon Whitewell’s turn even before his face fills the television screen. He looks like an old man, as if his months in prison have physically aged him. There’s a long, red scar on his forehead and the blossoming of a bruise across his cheek. His face is stark white, blood oozing from his split lip. He’s clearly struggling against his bonds.

 

“I don’t…what do you guys want? Hey-“ the camera tilts a little. “I know you, you came and talked to me before Glen Reese’s trial! Are you….are you insane!? I’m not an Alpha, you know I’m not an Alpha! Jesus. Just…just let me go and I’ll….I won’t tell anybody, alright, just-“

 

An arm reaches into the screen, and the camera spins past Simon Whitewell’s naked form as it fall to the ground. It gives them a clear view of the chair he’s standing on, and how it’s kicked out from under him. His leg jolts, trying to find footing that is no longer there. The screen goes dark.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three cheers for my beta, CowMow. You´re absolutely top of the line!
> 
> And to all my readers, most sincere thanks to all of you who drop me a kudos or comment. I´d not be able to write without you.

**Warning: Abuse of substances (kind of) and graphic description of crime scenes.**

 

**Chapter eighteen.**

 

 

“I don’t get it,” Lestrade says for the fourth time in just as many hours. “Obviously they made this film to… promote their work. Why not use it?”

 

“Probably because Simon Whitewell ruined their carefully planned script,” Sherlock explains yet again. They’ve been circling the topic of this conversation several times. “He recognized whoever was holding the camera,” he continues. “It was probably Lee Finkle.”

 

“Isn’t that jumping to conclusions?” Lestrade argues.

 

Sherlock counts the points off his fingers with more drama than the situation actually warrants. But then again, he wouldn’t be Sherlock Holmes if he didn’t. “Whitwell could have been the name she chose? The hard drive was found hidden in Glen Reese’s lawn ornament in Lee Finkle’s garden. Finkle was both his doctor and his lawyer, so there was ample opportunity for Reese to… give this particular gift. As Reese’s lawyer, she would have legitimate reasons to visit Simon Whitewell in prison. Lee Finkle introduced Reese to the Support Group. We can safely assume this Group is responsible for carrying out the murders. Lee Finkle was obviously frightened and upset about what was happening, as evident by her behaviour outside Baker Street and on the train platform. She had brought a suitcase with her to the train station, indicating that she might have wanted to hand over the hard drive. She’s found dead and her office destroyed mere hours after she tries to talk to us. The only reason we are in possession of this evidence now is that Lee Finkle probably intended to secure herself with blackmail material against the murderers. In addition, we know there was a “lawyer” included in the group, pointed out by Finkle herself.”

 

“Fine,” Lestrade concedes grudgingly. “You make valid points, even if there’s nothing but circumstantial evidence. “

 

Sherlock presses his lips to a thin line.  He knows he is right about his deductions, even if they cannot find the evidence to support it.

 

“So we got three people identified,” Lestrade says, shaking Sherlock out of his thoughts. “Reese, Finkle, Blithely. That leaves the nurse and the marine. If these two Alphas were… chosen for personal reasons, then we might find the nurse and the marine amongst their records.”

 

“It’s possible,” Sherlock agrees, “but we will need to identify them from Fenway’s impractical naming system. I suppose you haven’t found any sort of cipher yet?”

 

Lestrade shakes his head.

 

Sherlock drags his fingers through his hair and steals a glance at John. John fell asleep somewhere between the third and the fourth round, elbow on his knee and hand cupping his chin. The position must be uncomfortable, but it is proof of John’s claim to be able to sleep anywhere and at any time.

 

“Alright,” Sherlock says, “text me if there’s any progress.”

 

Lestrade tries to hide his smile, but he can’t set his face quickly enough to stop the smile from reaching his eyes.

 

Sherlock gently pries John out of the chair and tries not to find John endearing like this, his eyes warm and pliant and his movements sluggish from sleep. It’s entirely wasted on the New Scotland Yard.

 

“Should we pick up some dinner on the way back?” John asks once they are outside and the cold air has pulled him from his sleepy stupor. He huddles in his coat, his scarf wrapped tightly around his neck to keep out the cold.

 

“Chinese?” Sherlock suggests.

 

John smiles and nods, before tucking his arm into Sherlock’s.

 

 

 

The next day, all hell breaks loose.

 

 

From the cover of one of the biggest newspaper in Britain, the faces of three men stare at the readers with thick, white ropes clearly visible around their necks. Fear radiates from their eyes, their portraits captured in the last throes of death, except for Simon Whitewell, who was already dead.  It sells more issues than the news of Princess Diana’s death and by early afternoon, the presses are still churning out fresh newspapers to sate the ever-growing demand of the hungry crowd.

 

The headlines show no compassion for the three victims: “Judgement Passed on Alpha Criminals” is written in thick, black letters. In the centrefold, the newspaper has a nine-page spread with a photomontage that shows the film, almost frame-by-frame, with subtitles, so that the readers do not have to miss a second of the horrors. Simon Whitewell’s words, however, have been censored, probably to better fit the spirit of the article.

 

Within minutes of being uploaded the film goes viral and during the early morning rush the newspaper’s web page crashes five times. The online response is immediate and the audience makes certain their opinion is well-known: the comment section is flooded with people voicing their disgust, not at the new low of the newspaper’s clamour to fame but at how these Alphas managed to avoid punishment for years. How could the legal system have given them such clemency? How many dangerous Alphas are still living amongst them because the legal system didn’t think they should be punished for acting on instincts? Is Britain not a civilized society? How many lives have Alphas? At least somebody is ensuring that these vicious criminals are getting what they deserve.

 

“Not only do they accept the execution,” an eager intern, the one responsible for editing the pictures, tells his senior manager, Mrs. Ann Thorn, “they are also applauding the people responsible. They think this is the right way to go about the Alpha menace.”

 

Mrs. Thorn smiles thinly and reminds herself, for the third time, that the intern is young and dumb, easily influenced and eager to climb onto whatever bandwagon is popular. He doesn’t have a future in the British Press. Shame he’s so talented with photography.

 

“Are you even listening to yourself?”

 

The intern huffs and folds his arms over his chest. “Freedom of the press, ma’am. There’s nothing in the constitution that says that you have to sympathize with the victims or hate the murderer.”

 

Mrs. Thorn can only smile and glances at her watch. Even if this day has become the most lucrative day in the history of the newspaper, she cannot get rid of the unpleasant taste in her mouth. She knows she´s crossed several lines that she cannot recover. “Have the police been here?”

 

The intern shakes his head. “I think they are too occupied to cover their own ground. They are going to have a press conference this evening. But we protect our sources, right? Only my friend at the Yard…”

 

Mrs. Thorn looks at her watch again. Nine hours to go.

 

“Yes, we protect our sources,” Mrs. Thorn says, almost wishing for once that it wasn’t true.

 

 

The residents of Paradise Gardens, Block C, third floor, and Andrew Nash’s neighbours all meet in the corridor, sharing cigarettes and hushed conversations. Somehow, they had all always known there was something peculiar about Nash. He was always prone to anger outbursts. Violent and dangerous. And his poor wife...! How typical of the police to not care enough about poor Isidora’s death. Probably because the police are all Alphas as well, covering up for one of their own. After all, how else could the police be “ignorant” of the criminal Alpha network operating right under their noses? Remember that cursed politician who thinks he can get away with abusing his family? And let’s not forget how the Alphas have ruined the economy. Poor Mr. Claufield in 312, he lost all his savings and nobody did anything to help him. They all agree that something must be done.

 

Albert Crawford, from 307, a marine sent home a year ago on dishonourable discharge, suggests they use the List to see if there are any Alphas living in their block and to make sure they aren’t in any position to hurt anybody every again.

 

They all agree.

 

Albert tells them he still has his military issued handgun, and old Mrs. Tormberry from 301 says that she still has her old service weapon from her days in the RAF. So, if any of these Alphas give them any trouble, they’ll be sorry.

 

It is somehow worse for Joseph Braithsworth. The business stocks plummet as shareholders hurry to wash their hands of any connections to Braithsworth. None of the employees show up for work that day, or the days following. His wife and daughter flee to France as soon as they are able, refusing to answer any of the calls from the slew of lawyers hot on their tails. Mrs. Braithsworth only gets through the day with heavy medication, both in prescription and liquid form, while the daughter dyes her hair black and cuts it short. Armed with a pair of heavy rimmed glasses and a fake I.D she boards the train to Berlin. She calls her stepbrother, but he refuses to answer the phone. In fact, he´s not answered it since his recent television debut. It’s perhaps better this way, she thinks. Now they are both free of him and can move on.

 

A few days later, much to her chagrin, Mrs. Braithsworth discovers that her daughter has transferred all of her trust fund money into benefits organization established to help the victims of mesothelioma. It requires another dose of medication to tackle that particular news.

 

 

“Are you honestly sure that you didn’t see anything?”

For Constable Jake Mills, this morning is the night shift from hell that just won’t end. Seven hours ago, his supervisor had kindly suggested that he extended his shift to cover the early morning shift because a couple of guys on morning patrol had called in sick. Jake Mills can imagine that some of his Alpha colleagues will want to sit this day out, but he grits his teeth together and carries on. A scant hour before he is done with a twelve-hour shift, he is called in to cover the scene of a traffic accident.

 

The driver is a blubbering mess, his hands shaking so badly that the tea in his plastic cup sloshes over the rim. A paramedic wraps an orange blanket around his shoulders and offers a friendly pat on his back. He’s answering a 999 call, but quickly it becomes obvious that there is nothing to be done for the guy with half his torso trapped under the front wheel of the truck and his brain seeping into the tarmac.

 

“I was on my phone,” the tallest witness sighs. “I just heard the sound of screeching tires and then people started to scream.” He gestures to the street. “It’s a busy intersection if you don’t watch where you are going….” He gives a helpless shrug.

 

Jake Mills frowns and makes a few notes into his black notebook. He scans the rest of the witnesses who have been cordoned off the scene and held in place by his partner, Eileen Sours. Seven individuals. Two in their teens, university students probably, the rest of them adults, all indistinguishable from all the other early morning shoppers and commuters. They are a restless bunch, shuffling their feet and shoulders hunched, not only against the Scottish winter. Their gaze flickers every which way. Never at each other. Not to the constables. Not to the unfortunate guy under the tyres. Jake Mills is fairly good at reading body language and he knows they are hiding something.

 

“So,” he says, stepping up to the group. They turn to him, as one, seven pairs of eyes bearing down on him, like a bunch of dogs waiting for instructions.  His mouth is suddenly dry.

 

“So,” he repeats, “did any of you see what happened?”

 

The group mutters, before one of the teenagers, a girl, the same age as his nice, raises her hand.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“He tripped, sir,” she says, her voice loud and clear and without the tremor one would expect from a young woman who’s just seen a man smashed to pieces by an oncoming truck. “He just tripped. Right off the sidewalk.”

 

“That’s right,” a second voice hurries to add, “stumbled, right into the street. Damned unlucky, if you ask me.”

 

The rest of the group murmurs their agreement.

 

“It’s a busy street,” a young lady says, “anything can happen if you don’t watch your step.”

 

 

Courtney Couvox is called down to her jewellery shop after the alarm is triggered a few minutes after eight am. The thief, or thieves, the security guy is sketchy about the details, manages to get away with several hundred thousand pounds worth of stolen jewels. The agent from the insurance office comes down after the police have departed, to survey the damages and take inventory of the missing stock.  He makes a considering noise as Courtney Couvox hands him the list of the missing antique jewels and gems.

 

“What goes around comes around, hm?” He tucks the list away without even looking at it.

 

Anger flares, bright and dangerous, and Courtney has to reel in her temper to avoid raking her well-manicured nails across the guy´s smug face. “What do you mean?”

 

He closes his briefcase with a dismissive shrug.

 

“You were number twenty on the List, weren’t you? It said your family started this lucrative jewellery business with Nazi spoils and that your husband, the judge, has dismissed several attempts by the Courts and the Society of Reparations to have your stores inspected.”

 

Courtney bristles but manages to curl her anger into her fists and to keep it there. Getting into an altercation with the insurance agent will do nothing to help her cause. She offers him a tight, venomous smile as he bids her a good day. There are other ways to get even.

 

 

In Manchester, stockbroker Gordon Helm arrives at his office later than usual. Things had been strained ever since his name appeared on that damned List. His omega husband had demanded to know if Edward´s accusations were correct: had he been stealing money from his clients, the savings of elderly couple, playing it up as bad luck on the market? Gordon had assured him that it was utter nonsense and that his wealth came from his grandfather’s fortunate investments in the early forties. Brady wasn’t fully convinced, but he is a docile type, quick to make a fuss, but too cowardly to back up his threats. He is great with the clients, though, kind and doting and throws dinner parties so spectacular, that he has been a contributing factor to a lot of his clients deciding to invest with him.

 

Gordon always thought himself lucky to have ensnared Brady at such an early age. As soon as he has enough money, he’ll cut ties with him and make his way to more exotic markets, like Argentina or Brazil. He just… just needs a bit more. Just to be safe. It had been tough in the start, but he´d gotten some solid advice from this guy online and has been able to build up a substantial savings account, all for a modest advice fee. Still, he feels better having taken extra precautions with his current portfolio.

 

His office is located in the most expensive part of town, laid out as a mirror of his success and wealth. Nobody trusts a poor guy with their investments. The door to his office is open and he steps inside, coat already shrugged halfway off his shoulders when he realises that he is entirely alone.

 

Neither of his secretaries is present and the three interns are nowhere to be seen either. The office is dark.

 

“Hello?” Gordon tries cautiously. He feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle against the chill in the room.

 

The room is a mess. Furniture upturned, chairs broken, pictures pulled off the walls and thrown across the room. Books and files are spread all across the floor and the computers lay in a broken heap of glass and wires.  He carefully makes his way across broken shards and pieces of shattered chairs, muttering curses under his breath. Has his own staff turned on him and decided to trash his office? Christ. This is just what he needed to make his day perfect. He makes his way to his office, ready to assess the damage done there.

 

Hopes that they didn’t find the safe hidden behind the painting of Churchill. 

 

When he opens the door, however, he doesn’t catch more than a glimpse of the picture torn off the wall. He cannot take his eyes off the hangman’s noose suspended from a hook in the middle of his office. The chair under it.

 

Behind him, there´s the sound of glass crunching under approaching steps.

 

 

By the early hours of December, it was confirmed by a sombre journalist that on this day, England passed the highest number of reported homicides in England and Wales since 2002. The number passed the 1050 mark, the highest number ever reported within twenty-four hours.  It has been the first day in history where every single crime was committed against Alphas, and the police found themselves hard-pressed to respond.

 

“Excerpts are hesitant to make a connection between the recent influx of homicides and violent crimes to the growing rioting and hatred of Alphas,” the reporter says to the camera. “Many are clamouring for an end to these unrests, and for answers to crimes proposed by the so-called List. Others demand changes to the legal proceedings such as stricter consequences for Alpha offenders, despite their youth and the circumstances of the incidents. Edward Blithely, seen by many as the leader and instigator of a growing social movement against Alphas, has said that he does not condone violence of any kind. He has been unable to comment on the recent-”

 

Sherlock turns off the television before the reporter can finish his mournful report, and makes his way to the window in something that he knows would categorize as a huff. This case would be maddeningly frustrating and yet fascinating if his attention wasn’t otherwise occupied with things far more interesting and pleasant. Moriarty has wanted him to come out and play and…. A few years ago, he would have found this whole venture ridiculously fantastic. A group of people conspiring to commit murder. Inciting people to turn against Alphas and create public discord and chaos. Sherlock had always faced the lone criminal (or tightly organized criminal group), but he’s never anything that involved so many differencing factors. Social media. Students. Crowds. Mobs. It seems like Moriarty won’t be content until he’s involved all of the United Kingdom in this particular crime spree. And what is the motive for it all? Certainly Moriarty is enjoying sitting back and watching the chaos unfold. Were the members of The Support Group enjoying it as well, or did their goal differ from Moriarty´s?

 

John has said that the executions were personal, and Sherlock is inclined to agree with him. The victims could not have been randomly chosen from Edward’s List, after all, they might only get away with it once. They had to make it count.

 

Was revenge the only thing they wanted? Or were they after the money that had disappeared from the victims’ accounts? How has Moriarty managed to persuade Edward Blithely to participate in this mad scheme? Because surely, this was not something Edward had managed to concoct himself.

 

Sherlock wipes his hand across his face, finding that he’s feeling truly tired for the first time in months. Not since he completed the first step of his Operation Lazarus and found himself leaving England, and John, behind. It feels as though his exhaustion has seeped into the very marrow of his bones.

 

He closes his eyes. Lets his head fall against the cool glass. It’s quiet. The only sound is the monotone hum from the refrigerator and the faintest ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. If he concentrates hard enough, he can imagine the dulcet tones of John’s even breathing. He pictures the way his expression relaxes, seems almost still and docile- even if he knows John can spring from asleep to awake and alert in a heartbeat. He thinks of Sam sleeping on his back, one fist curled loosely by his mouth, the other wrapped in the fur of his toy dog. Sherlock finds that he doesn’t care much for any other knowledge than knowing that the two most important people in the world are safe and warm. And if he squeezes his eyes shut, he knows that the fear of losing them is a livid, savage thing living in his chest.

 

After all, love is the most vicious motivator.

 

 

The next morning dawns, crisp and clear and London seems almost desolate in the harsh, pale light. It’s one of those Sundays when it seems that everybody has decided to barricade themselves inside against the chill. Sam is bundled up securely against the cold with his hat pulled so far down over his head that not a single lock of hair is visible. His nose and cheeks are tinted pink by the frigid wind and his breath escapes in puffs of air as he points excitedly at a passing dog, one hand firmly locked in John’s.

 

Sherlock turns up the collar of his cloak and pauses in front of Speedy’s to study an abandoned newspaper. They are still running the headlines of the three executions and a smaller article draws a parallel to a stockbroker found hanged in his office in Manchester.

 

John stuffs his free hand into his pocket, his shoulders hunched almost up to his ears as he staves off the cold wind. They walk for a few minutes, huddled against the cold before Sherlock tugs off his gloves. He hands them wordlessly to John.

 

“Thanks,“ John murmurs warmly, stuffing his hands into them and relishing in the warm, soft leather against his skin. He takes Sam’s hand again.

 

“Rather chilly this morning,” Sherlock comments, finding his way into Small Talk without even meaning to (as he so often seems to do with John). “Cold wind.”

 

“Hmm.” John lifts his face against the wind, his nose wrinkling against the cold. “From the East, I think.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You´ve my most sincere apologies for the long wait. I got caught up with grading at work (210 papers graded!) Afterwards I hit a bit of a wall with this story, and writing in general and I wasn´t all that confident I´d manage this huge task I´ve undertaken. 
> 
>  
> 
> Luckily, I´ve a wonderful and patient beta (CowMow <3) and a kind audience. Without your support, there probably wouldn´t have been a new chapter in quite a while.

Warning: crime-scene gore, none-explicit talk of past abuse.

 

**Chapter nineteen.**

 

John is still waving when the car disappears around the corner. He feels an odd sense of melancholy at his son’s eagerness to leave John for Mycroft’s company. It isn’t unusual for Sam to spend a morning with Mycroft and John has always been touched by Mycroft’s patience when dealing with Sam, even in the face of Sam’s habit of putting his sticky fingers all over Mycroft’s bespoke suits. But last evening was the first time Sam had specifically asked to visit his uncle. Suddenly, John had realized that nearly two weeks had passed since they moved to 221 B. They've been busy with the case and trying to figure out the domestic orbit of their new relationship. Additionally, he wonders if Sam is picking up on their unease over their current situation or if he simply missed Mycroft’s presence.

 

A gust of icy wind forces John to retreat back inside and he rubs his hands to bring some warmth to his icy digits. The temperature has been steadily dropping and the weather forecast predicts snow later today.

 

“Good morning, doctor.”

 

John turns, startled that he didn’t hear her approach. Mary is standing at the foot of the stairs, smiling kindly at him. She is dressed in a black coat, a red scarf around her neck with matching red gloves. In the crook of her arm rests a large basket, the weight of it pulling on her arm.

 

“Good morning. A bit chilly for a picnic, isn’t it?” He nods to the basket.

 

Mary lowers the basket to the floor, giving John a good look at packages inside. One large and two small ones, all wrapped in brown paper and tied up with a string. “I’m just off to the post, need to get those Christmas presents sent early if they are going to be on time.”

 

“Oh, right.”

 

Christmas.

 

John tries not to think about their apartment, bare of anything remotely resembling anything Christmasy. Sam’s first Christmas has been spent in the hospital. The only Christmas tree had been a small thing in the hospital lounge. Their next one had been a similarly muted affair in one of Mycroft’s tucked-away cottages, just another one in the seemingly endless row of nondescript houses.

 

Mary is still smiling at him. John wonders if he’s missed something. Did she ask him a question and is she now waiting for John’s response?

 

He masks his embarrassment with a tight smile and stuff his hands in his pockets. “Well, it’s getting cold, I’d best head back up.”

 

“Have a good day, doctor.” Mary inclines her head. She hefts her basket back up on her arm.

 

“Good day,” John responds and trudges up the stairs. He doesn’t know why he stands on the landing, waiting until he hears the front door close before he slips back into his apartment.

 

Once inside, John toes off his shoes and quietly clears away the remnants of their breakfast. Sam had crawled into his bed at five this morning, insisting that it was time to leave. John had managed to coax another thirty minutes of sleep from him before he had relented and texted Mycroft. Mycroft had responded promptly and said he’d be there with a car in an hour. After a silent conversation about Sam's visit, John and Sam had crept downstairs. In the living room, they found Sherlock fast asleep on the sofa, fully dressed and facing the wall. It’s the first time since he moved back that John had seen Sherlock actually sleep. Now, when John returns back upstairs, the detective is still fast asleep..

 

He stands in the dark room for a moment, half-heartedly trying to ignore the warm feeling blooming in his sternum. John is intimately familiar with this sensation because he spent over a year trying to suppress it, trying not to think of it as a biological imbalance. They aren’t Bonded, but there is an emotional attachment and unconditional acceptance between them.

 

It’s a narrow fit, but John slots himself against Sherlock’s back, his arms sliding around his slender waist, the palm of his hand pressed against his stomach. He rests his forehead against Sherlock’s knobby shoulder blades. He takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Lets his senses savor every sensation. This feeling is a result of Oxytocin, his medical memory supplies, the cuddle hormone.

 

He feels the gentle rise and fall of the Alpha’s breath against his hand. After a moment, Sherlock maneuvers his arm clumsily against John’s, until John can feel the itch of the cast against his skin. Sherlock covers John’s hands with his own and then curls his fingers under his palm.

 

“Where is Sam?” Sherlock’s voice is rough with sleep.

 

“Spending the day with Mycroft,” John answers.

 

He waits for some sort of retort. There isn’t one, but John thinks he can hear the sound of Sherlock’s mind, the racing engine hurtling along neuropathways. John lies still, hoping not to stir up anything else in his mind. He isn’t quite ready to talk about those years apart, not now, with the feeling of Sherlock's warmth against his.

 

Sherlock remains blissfully silent, accepting it. Whatever _it_ is.

 

 

A little after ten, they meet Lestrade in the foyer of New Scotland Yard. They detective inspector looks haggard and John can tell he’s running on a fuel of coffee and nicotine. There’s an admonishment on the tip of John’s tongue, but Lestrade beats him to it.

 

“Yes, I know. I have heard it from Molly already. It’s been an absolute nightmare-all-hands-on-deck kinda thing. It’s been five years since we had any big riots in London, and decades since any as violent as these.”

 

“What’s the official word?”

 

Lestrade rolls his eyes, “To keep calm and carry on. Honestly, I suspect they don’t know how to react. Using the police against civilians is a dicey subject, no matter how you slice it. On the other hand, the government isn’t about to give in to the demands of violent protesters.”

 

“Do you think people will just lose interest and give up?”

 

“I don’t know.” Lestrade gestures for them to follow him down the corridor. “Usually something else happens to divert the public’s interest, another scandal or crisis. But a lot of people seem to feel very strongly about this. I guess it’s because of all the personal stories that are constantly being published. Every day there’s a new, grim tale to fuel the fire.”

 

John sneaks a glance at Sherlock. His expression is guarded, the one he employs when he’s sifting through something in his Mind Palace that he’s not ready to share yet. It wouldn’t worry John, except he’s seen this look so many times on Sherlock these past few days that he half worries that the detective has gotten lost.

 

Lestrade leads them up a set of stairs and down a bright, cream-colored corridor and into a large conference room that’s been turned into a temporary office. One wall is completely covered in windows that admit pale, bright light. Along the other wall is a row of whiteboards, divided into parallel sections. They are covered in names, some crossed out, others connected by a complicated color code that John cannot decipher.

 

There are four large desks, groaning under the weight of computer equipment. The only person in the room that John recognizes is Yu Kosaki, the rest of the crew are all strangers. She’s at her desk, staring at the screen and chewing on a pencil. She leaps to her feet as soon as Lestrade clears his throat.

 

“Sir.” She gives an aborted bow, before flushing with embarrassment.

 

“Kosaki.” Lestrade ushers John and Sherlock towards the whiteboard. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve been doing.”

 

Yu twists her pencil into her hair, making a tangled bun at the nape of her neck.

 

“We’ve been working on the hard drive. It took us a day to weed out the medical files from all the other data. In the end, we had a list of over 3500 names, some of the biblical names repeated several times,” she explains.

 

John eyes the whiteboard and immediately spots what Yu is talking about. There’s a Samson IX and Peter III, Adam IV, Ruth II and so on. Not once, though, does John see David or Jacob repeated anywhere on the board. He’s not particularly thrilled to feel singled out, to have his whole life viciously dissected and liberally annotated by Fenway’s desperate attempt to rekindle a dwindling career.

 

“Sheesh, over 3500 patients? Isn’t that an unusual number of names? Does a doctor really see that many people?” Lestrade looks at John for the answer.

 

John shrugs a little. “For a career spanning over 30 years, and as a specialist in Europe? There might have been individuals he only saw once, but they would still have gotten a patient file. Three and a half thousand isn’t really that unreasonable. If he wasn’t an Alpha-Omega specialist, you might have had a list of ten or twenty thousand patients.”

 

“First we separated the Alphas from Omegas,” Yu continues. “Then, we thought the best way to find Nash and Braithsworth was to sort the patient files by occupation. Even if Fenway gave them pseudonyms we assume he didn’t bother to invent their listed occupations.“

 

They move to stand in front of the massive whiteboards covering the length of the wall. Now John sees that it has been divided into categories: governmental, military, education, economy, private firms, nursing, student, unemployed and police.

 

Not surprisingly there are over a hundred Alpha names filling the slots under military, police, private firms and economy, all with a small, colored tag attached to the names.

 

Yu Kosaki steps up and walks them through the system on the whiteboard.

 

“Since we don’t know when Nash and Braithworth might have first seen Fenway, we’ve used color codes to indicated individuals who were between fifteen-to-eighteen-years old about the same time as Nash and Braithworth. That’s the average age of presenting as Alphas.”

 

“How many of these individuals have served time?”

 

“Only a couple” Kosaki answers, “but since the point of the execution was to punish them for crimes where the police have failed, we don’t think it will be helpful. Besides, 67% of these individuals were brought to Fenway after they had committed a minor misdemeanor written off as a biological side effect. We’ve also excluded people who are not listed as British citizens. We also thought about removing those who do not fit the description of the crimes confessed in the video or on the List, but since we do not know the validity of those claims, or if they ever confessed them to Fenway….” She trails off.

 

“So, in essence, you’ve managed to reduce the number from three-and-half thousand to-“

 

“Two hundred and five potential candidates.”

 

Christ. John suddenly feels as tired as Lestrade looks.

 

“So, somewhere in those two hundred and five files, we might be able to identify Nash and Braitshworth, and then we’re hoping to find a way to tie either of them to Edward Blithely.”

 

Lestrade runs a hand through his hair. He looks at Sherlock, mentally pleading with the world’s only consulting detective to do the part where he hones in on some detail, overlooked or ignored by all of them, and tells them what idiots they are being for seeing but not observing. The tall detective is unusually taciturn. He is standing next to John, staring at the whiteboard with an oddly distant expression. There’s nothing more disconcerting than an immobile and silent Sherlock Holmes.

 

Lestrade tries to catch John’s attention. John is always more obvious with his thoughts and feelings and he’s always able to broadcast some of Sherlock’s thinking. John catches his gaze, arches his brow and gives a shrug Lestrade isn’t sure how to interpret. Is it an “all is well” shrug, is it an “I’ve no idea what he is thinking” shrug?

 

Lestrade sighs and turns to Yu. “Isn’t there a way to narrow the search down further?”

 

“Well,” Yu Kosaki flicks an errant lock of hair behind her right ear, “then we’d be guessing.”

 

“And if we remove those who doesn’t have a criminal history that is even remotely similar to Nash and Braithsworth?”

 

“Hundred and fifty-eight” Yu Kosaki says, “sexual assault is by far the most common criminal offense. We still haven’t figured out how Edward Blithely managed to identify the individuals from this Fenway’s patient files to the names on the List.”

 

“If we assume that he got the data from Glen Reese,” Lestrade murmurs, “he’s had three years to work through this information.”

 

“Glen could have had help from “Jacob”,” John appears by his side “who, by his own confession worked closely with Fenway for years. For all we know, they invented the system together.”

 

The room falls silent as Lestrade mulls through this possibility. John catches Sherlock’s eyes. The detective is barely able to reign in his sigh. It kindles something akin to hope in him. John’s not surprised that Sherlock made this connection days ago, he’s just surprised he didn’t share it. Does it mean he thinks it’s irrelevant for the case, or that he’s plotting something again? The thoughts make the next words lodge itself, sharp and painfully, in John’s throat. He won’t go down that road again, not even in his mind.

 

They spend the next two hours in a silence only disturbed by the hum of the computers and finger pads running over keys. Sherlock is still studying the whiteboard though John cannot begin to understand what he’s hoping to see in a list of biblical names. Now and then Sherlock walks across the room and stares out the window, his eyes the same impossible color as the bright skies.

 

John fingers his mobile phone, wondering if he should text Mycroft and ask after Sam. He pictures them in Mycroft’s opulent living room, Mycroft teaching him sign language or working on some complicated puzzle. It's where he would rather be right now. Where Sherlock would rather be right now.

 

“What did Mrs. Braithsworth say when she was confronted with her husband’s spending?” Sherlock’s voice pulls John out of his reverie.

 

Lestrade crosses the room and picks up at a file, flipping through it until he finds the summary of the interview of Mrs. Braithsworth and her daughter. He had been tasked with the unpleasant job of breaking the news of her husband’s death. Lestrade remembers the tremor in Mrs. Braithsworth’s thin hands, the way her eyes danced restlessly about the room, unwilling or unable to look at him. The tell-tale signs of somebody who was hiding something.

 

“As far as she knew, her husband was planning to travel to Thailand on Friday. He was going to be gone a week, which is why he was never reported missing. She claims to know nothing about his finances and said that accusations on the List are vile rumors concocted by one of their many enemies. She was checked out of the case because she has an iron-clad alibi for the entire weekend: six different relatives can confirm that she was visiting family in Wales. We have train tickets and surveillance footage confirmation.”

 

“And the daughter?”

 

“Was away at boarding school in Switzerland at the time. From the daughter’s own statement she and Joseph Braithsworth were estranged and it had been years since she had seen him. Several friends and family members can confirm this. There is absolutely nothing that even remotely indicates that either has any connection to Edward Blithely. ”

 

“What’s the reason for the estrangement?” Sherlock asks.

 

“She wouldn't say. I assumed it had to do with her father’s crimes from the List.”

 

“What about Andrew Nash?”

 

“He has no living relatives or any children. The only family connection is with his wife’s family, but they have not spoken to him since Isidora Nash’s funeral. They blamed Andrew Nash for her suicide. Isidora’s family is…well, it’s a bit hard to get a handle on. Her father passed when she was fifteen, leaving behind the mother, three older brother and one sister. The mother later remarried and had four children with her new husband, two sets of twins within two years. There’s also a couple of children from the stepfather’s previous family, a slew of uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins and…”

 

Lestrade wipes a hand across his eyes and flips through the paperwork until he comes finds the latest summary. “None of the family members fit the description of “nurse” or “marine.” They’ve excluded all of the immediate family, even if they are, mostly each other’s witnesses-“

 

Lestrade presses his lips to a grim smile. “We’re never going to get a warrant for Edward Blithely on these terms. We do not have a single, solid lead.”

 

“But you are still going to ask.” There’s a challenge in Sherlock’s voice, like a schoolmate's daring.

 

“You know she doesn’t much care for the theories-without-concrete-evidence-approach,” Lestrade mutters and John senses that he’s witnessing the cliff notes of a long-standing argument between Sherlock and Lestrade.

 

“We only need him in the interview room. Besides, I think I’ve earned myself some good will,” Sherlock says, his voice oddly soft. Lestrade notices it and Sherlock’s quick glance at John.

 

“Fine,” Lestrade concedes, “but I’ll be talking to her alone, I don’t need a repetition of last time.”

 

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth creep up in a minute smile.

 

“What happened last time?” John asks.

 

“Oh, the usual,” Lestrade grumbles, “he deduced the Chief Superintendent’s problematic marriage and the infidelity committed by both partners.”

 

 

 

 

“You still haven’t made any progress with identifying the driver of the prison transport,” Detective Chief Superintendent Victoria Marlow says.

 

She flicks through Lestrade’s report with an expression that would frighten small children. Whenever Lestrade is forced to visit Marlow’s office, he always leaves feeling guilty and incompetent, even if he has just closed a case with satisfactory results and within budget. Today he feels about as welcome as a recurrence of the Black Plague.

 

“No, ma’am.”

 

He clasps his hands at the small of his back. If Marlow doesn’t grant them the search warrant, Lestrade isn’t sure what they will do. He knows they’ve got diddly squat and that they have exhausted all the other avenues. He tries to shake away the mental image of Sherlock standing, calmly, in front of the white board. A murder group, conspiracy, triple murder. A case gift-wrapped for Sherlock Holmes and yet the detective seemed so… docile in the face of their lack of progress. Usually he´d be marching around Lestrade´s office, chastising their idiocy.

 

“Nor have you been able to identify the culprit who faked your signature.” Marlow’s frown deepens.

 

Lestrade shifts his weight from one foot to the other, an excuse teetering on the edge of his tongue. He’s just not certain how it will serve his cause to share the Moriarty Theory with Marlow. Marlow might share Sherlock’s passion for the cold, hard, facts. However, she is less inclined to believe in elaborate plots. It was difficult enough three years ago when he stood in this office and had to explain to her that there was a conspiracy between several corrupt police officers under her command. How is he going to convince her that Moriarty has concocted their current can of worms and that has been planning it for years?

 

“We’re working under the theory that the “marine” was the one who drove the prison transport,” Lestrade says, “but nobody is able to give an accurate description of the officer who collected Simon Whitewell. One will say he was tall and blonde while another will swear he was short with dark hair. One person even claimed it was a woman.”

 

“Another faked signature?”

 

Lestrade represses the urge to shrug, “and fake police identity. We believe they come from the same source that provided Jane Hill and Simon Whitwell their fake identity cards and uniforms, when they absconded with John Watson from policy custody three years ago.”

 

“The source being James Moriarty, a man who, according to all databases, doesn’t really exists.” Marlow wets the tip of her fingertip and flicks to a new sheet of paper. “The hard-drive that belonged to doctor Fenway, how is your progress with it?”

 

“Even if we have managed to reduce the number of possible aliases, we have not been able to identify either Nash or Braithworth. We were hoping that if we could find their files, there might be something in it that would tie them to Edward Blithely.”

 

“And this is your only source in identifying the remaining members of this Support Group, this….nurse and marine?”

 

Lestrade cringes. “Technicians have gone over the videos and the crime scenes with a fine-tooth comb, but there is absolutely no evidence-“ Lestrade sees the storm gathering in Marlow’s eyes and quickly steers to safety. “We know that it took at least two people to complete the execution and that one of them had the medical knowledge required to administer the drugs. We know they were tortured before they were killed, most likely for their bank account information, but even the money trail leads to what my guys in economic crimes call “empty shell corporations.”

 

“But your only source identifying Edward Blithely as the “actor” is Lee Finkle, who was recently killed in a fire?”

 

“We have no reason to believe she lied.”

 

“I see,” Marlow flicks through another few pages, never even pausing to read them. “How is the investigation into the arson at Finkle´s practice going?”

 

“According to the coroner’s report, Finkle was killed before the fire was set. We believe in a scenario where Finkle was followed home from the train station and killed by one of the members of the Support Group who saw her…well, as a traitor to their cause, because she had approached John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“And you believe this is the same reason Glen Reese was killed?”

 

Lestrade hesitates for a second before he answers in the affirmative.

 

Marlow leans back in her chair and steeples her fingertips together.

 

“Let me see if I can summarize the case as you believe it : Lee Finkle, in her capacity as a physiatrist, organizes a Support Group for people who have suffered some manner of abuse from Alphas. This Group consists of Lee Finkle, Glen Reese, Edward Blithely and the hereto unknown “nurse” and “marine.” This group conspire to extract revenge on Alphas they believe have wronged them: Andrew Nash, Joseph Braithsworth and Simon Whitewell. You believe they were chosen specifically for their crimes against people in this group, but you do not know who or why. Am I understanding you correctly so far?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Sherlock’s fake version of your signature ensures that Simon Whitewell is taken from custody and brought to the scene of execution at Tyrrells Primary School. You do not know the identity of the driver and you have been unable to locate the vehicle. At the crime scene, they videotape the execution for the purpose of creating sympathy for their cause. However, during the execution Simon Whitewell exposes one of the individuals and claims that he is not, in fact, an Alpha. This means that the ritual execution is tainted.

 

You believe the hard-drive made its way from Fenway’s office to Finkle’s garden through Glen Reese, the man behind Fenway’s murder three years ago. Finkle, feeling guilty about her association with the Group, tries to give some information to your consulting detective, who is attacked by an unknown assailant. Later, Finkle is murdered by this very same assailant. You also strongly believe that there is a connection between the execution to the unsolved murders of Glen Reese and Jane Hill. The person or persons behind this all are the very same people who made Sherlock Holmes fake his own suicide to…well, how did you phrase it: to go into hiding and dismantle their criminal organization. He was the source who helped us weed out the corrupted cops two years ago, and whose information subsequently caused the biggest banking scandal in history.”

 

Lestrade nods again. He cannot help but be impressed by her concise summary of such a complicated case.

 

“Let us return to the case at hand: unable to use the promotion material from the execution, Edward Blithely initiates a hate campaign against Alphas on social media. You are unable to link Edward Blithely to this Support Group, the scene of crime, the video material or hard-drive. Despite this, you wish to issue a warrant for his arrest and to search his home and work space in hopes of finding evidence.”

 

“Yes, ma´am,” Lestrade tries, “we believe Edward Blithely´s List stems from the hard-drive-“

 

Marlow’s voice slices through his words.

 

“No. Absolutely not. I will not issue a warrant before you bring me some concrete evidence of Edward Blithley’s involvement in the triple homicide. We cannot afford to skirt the edges of the law in this case.”

 

Lestrade knows that part of the problem, a rather significant part, is all the attention from the media honed on Edward Blithely. Every day, they read a new, horrific story from people who have suffered years of abuse and it adds to the growing rage simmering in the public. Each time Edward Blithely appears on television, radio or the newspaper and urges people to abstain from violence, it somehow, seems to have the opposite effect. The riots and mass protests quickly escalated into violent confrontations. Store windows, houses, apartments of Alphas on Blithley’s List were the first to be destroyed. Alphas had been dragged from their homes, some had been beaten while others had been stripped naked and forced to flee barefoot through the cold. By the morning of the 9th of December, the Prime Minister had issued a curfew in hopes of keeping people off the streets. It did little to deter the most violent offenders e the police custody was brimming with angry men and women snarling and spitting at the officers.

 

Marlow rises from her desk and walks across her office to the great windows looking over the white mist of snow twirling in the air.

 

“A lot of people have been killed and injured, detective inspector. There are daily reports of assaults, vandalism, and looting. It’ll be Christmas soon and people are afraid to go outside. Bloody hell, even my own officers are afraid to come to work.

 

“Every day there is a new protest march in some part of Britain. How do you think people will react if news gets out that we have arrested their….unofficial spokesperson on such flimsy, circumstantial evidence?”

 

Lestrade recognizes a rhetorical question when he hears one and wisely keeps silent. She turns and tosses the file onto the desk. Exhaustion and unease are etched in every crease of her strained expression.

 

“You have already invited him for an interview later today, correct?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“You will proceed with caution, you will state on record that you are simply asking him to help with a police inquiry. You will advise him to bring his lawyer and you will stress that he is not under arrest and that he is free to leave at any time. You are not to antagonize him, and you are not to let him within five feet of Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Ma’am?”

 

Marlow uses her index finger to slide the file across her desk to Lestrade.

 

“He’s an Alpha, detective inspector. Public enemy number one, as far as Edward Blithely is concerned. I do not wish to read in tomorrow’s paper how he was threatened or harassed by an Alpha when he came to kindly assist the police. Do I make myself clear?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Lestrade snatches the file, tucks it under his arm and straightens his posture.

 

“Good. Dismissed.”

 

 

That afternoon, Edward Blithely sits in the police interview room with the same self-assured confidence Lestrade is getting used to seeing on television. He’s in a crisp, black suit with a deep maroon shirt that would have looked ridiculous on anybody else. His dark hair is slicked back and there’s just enough shade of stubble to give an appearance of casualness. He had strolled into the interview room as though he was the officer in charge and not the subject of interest in a multiple murder case.

 

His lawyer is a horse-faced woman with a bleached buzz cut and long, sharp limbs. She is dressed as though she was preparing for a war she does not intend to lose. Lestrade has faced her a couple of times in court and is well acquainted with her cold-blooded approach.

 

She shakes Lestrade’s hand with a claw-like hand, introduces herself as “ms. Audre Alton,” and demands two cups of tea in the same breath.

 

“Certainly,” Lestrade promises and prays that Sally will arrive soon so that he can order her to fetch the beverages.

 

“It is very kind of you to be willing to assist us in this inquiry,” Lestrade says as he forces a smile.

 

“Certainly,” Edward says, “I am always willing to help the hard-working men and women at Scotland Yard.”

 

“And we thank you for it.”

 

They sit for a few moments, Edward Blithely idly picking at some imaginary lint on his trousers while Audre Alton drums her manicured fingernails against the table.

 

"Let me just…" Lestrade gestures hopelessly towards the door and finds himself waiting for Alton’s dismissive nod before he hurries out the door, muttering curses all the way down to the canteen.

 

When he returns with two steaming cups of terrible coffee, Sally, John and Sherlock are waiting for him. Sherlock allows a small shrug to declare his disinterest in whatever Sally Donovan is telling him. It still surprises him to see Sherlock and Sally standing in amicable silence without barbed tongues locked behind the strained smile.

 

“Morning, sir,” Sally says, “sorry for the delay, I had to get the latest files and set up the audio feed.”

 

Lestrade frowns, “the what?”

 

Sally opens her palm and shows him two pieces of clear plastic. They look like tiny seashells.

 

“We’re going to have the pleasure of Sherlock’s voice in our ears,” she says with a wry twist of her lips.

 

“We need to rattle Edward Blithely’s confidence,” Sherlock explains, “I will observe him and feed you the appropriate questions.”

 

“I see,” Lestrade says in the resigned tone of voice that allows Sherlock victory before the argument has even started.

 

“What are you hoping to see?”

 

“It is always the little things that are infinitely the most important,” Sherlock answer.

 

“Right.” Lestrade hands John the coffee cups long enough to fit the device into his ear. It gives an unpleasant buzz as it slots into place.

 

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

 

They stride into the interview room. Lestrade places the two cups of coffee on the table, but neither ms. Alton or Edward Blithely makes any gestures to accept them.

 

“I requested tea, detective inspector, not coffee,” ms. Alton scoffs and Lestrade finds himself shrinking a little on his chair. He needs to retake control of the room, so he spends a moment arranging the papers just so, making a show of shuffling a couple towards Sally Donovan and giving her a conspirator smile, even as he hears Sherlock’s annoyed huff.

 

Sally turns on the tape recorder and lists the formalities, the date, time and makes everyone in the room introduce themselves and explain their role in the interview.

 

“I want it on record,” ms. Alton says as soon as Sally is finished speaking, “that my client and I are only here because of my client’s willingness to sort the matter of these dreadful crimes. You have yet to charge him with anything and so we will leave if we deem this not worth our time. Do not hesitate to think that I will not file harassment suits if you violate our display of goodwill.”

 

“Of course,” Lestrade says and meets Sally’s tight smile.

 

“Mr. Blithley,” Lestrade folds his hands on the table and turns his attention fully to Edward, “I am D.I Lestrade and this is sergeant Donovan.”

 

Edward leans back in his chair and gives them a long, measuring stare before he offers a slight nod, “you may address me as Edward,” he says with a sliver of a smile.

 

“Certainly,” Lestrade unlaces his fingers and slides his palms onto the table.

 

“Edward, I am investigating a triple homicide committed twelve days ago at Tyrrells Primary School, Chelmsford Essex. We have reason to believe that you may possess some knowledge of certain individuals that we are interested in identifying and I would like to talk to you about this.”

 

“I read about it in the newspaper,” Edward says, “saw the pictures and everything, a bit of an embarrassment for the Met.”

 

Lestrade isn’t about to fall for the oldest trick in the book. He maintains his thin smile.

 

“You might as well jump right to it,” Sherlock’s voice hums in his ear, “he’s here to play a game, no reason to go easy on him.”

 

“Tell me about your relationship to the victims?”

 

Edward Blithely opens his mouth and snaps it shut with an audible click that might have cut his tongue in two. Ms. Alton gives him a cautionary sneer. Edward recovers quickly, combing his hand through his hair and straightening his shirt.

 

“I am not familiar with any of the victims.”

 

Sally Donovan pulls out a set of photographs, pictures of the victims at the primary school, still alive and smiling at the camera. They hadn’t wanted to give them any reason to leave the interview in a huff.

 

“Please, take a good look at them.”

 

Edward casts his gaze quickly onto the pictures and then shrugs, pushing the images away.

 

“I never met any of them.”

 

Lestrade gives Sally a small nod, and she pulls out another set of photographs.

 

Glen Reese, Lee Finkle and doctor Fenway.

 

Edward leans across the table and looks down at the photographs. He presses his lips to a thin line. There’s just the faintest flinch, more of a twitch really. Ms. Alton’s frown deepens and she leans over Edward’s shoulder to get a better look at the pictures. She scribbles something into her notebook with a pinched expression.

 

“Press him on Fenway,” Sherlock encourages unnecessarily. “Make him explain why his name is in Fenway’s files.”

 

Lestrade schools his features before his surprise becomes visible. They still haven’t been able to crack the system on Fenway’s hard drive. Why does Sherlock want him to bluff?

 

“I don’t think I know any of these people,” Edward says, “why are you showing me these pictures? What are their connections to the homicides?”

 

“Just a part of our extended enquiry,” Lestrade explains with an air that he hopes sounds casual. He pushes Fenway’s picture forward. Edward Blithely’s gaze is locked on it, like a cat trying to gauge a potential threat or prey.

 

“Tell me about this man,” Lestrade demands.

 

“I don’t know him,” Edward shrugs.

 

“Doctor Fenway was a leading specialist on Alpha-Omega dynamics and biology and…” Lestrade aims for a casual, friendly laugh, “ a whole lot of stuff I do not really understand or care too deeply about. I understand and recognize that it’s a topic that is very important to you. So….it just seems highly improbable that you do not know who this man is. “

 

Edward glances at his lawyer. Ms. Alton arches a manicured eyebrow and inclines her head a little.

 

“My campaign is in no way associated with the murders of those three Alphas or any of the recent hostility and violence against the Alpha community. Alphas have committed serious crimes, crimes that the law enforcement for years has dismissed as trivial or even swept under the rug. People tire of the blatant abuse they must suffer from people who imagine having some inherent, biological, superiority, and so they revolt.”

 

It’s a practiced speech and Lestrade nods along to Edward’s words while Sally goes a step further and folds her face into a sympathetic frown.

 

“I understand what you are fighting for,” Sally Donovan murmurs, “and that you and your associates are not condoning violence, but there might be people who believe themselves associated with you, who are sympathetic to your cause, but who wants to take the fight into their own hands.”

 

Edward’s eyes flits from Lestrade to Sally Donovan, finally settling on the sergeant’s.

 

“Right, just as long as that is clear.”

 

“Now, Doctor Fenway,” Lestrade continues, capturing Edward’s attention again. “You say that you do not know him, but we have your name listed in his records.”

 

Edward leans back into his chair again, his jaw clenched as though he’s working through his response. Before he can form it, his lawyer intercedes.

 

“Medical records are a subject of doctor-patient confidentiality, even after the decease of the doctor in question.”

 

There’s a hiss in Lestrade’s ear as John and Sherlock loudly discusses something. Lestrade keeps his smile, even as he listens to Sherlock’s absurd suggestion. Then, the mic changes hands and John’s voice resonates through the headphones. Lestrade instantly begins to repeat what John tells him.“You are correct, of course, ms. Alton. There are strong legal safeguards in place to protect patient’s confidentiality. However, there are exception circumstances to this rule, such as for the police to investigate a serious crime.”

 

“Then I demand to see the court order giving you access to my client’s patient files.”

 

Lestrade scribbles something on a piece of paper and pushes it across the table to Sally Donovan.

 

“It is 13: 25 and sergeant Donovan is leaving the interview room,” Sally says before pushing her chair back and slipping quietly through the door. They sit in silence until she returns, Lestrade with his hands clasped calmly in his lap, ms. Alton with steepled fingers and a sneer. Edward Blithely has loosened his tie and pushed his chair further away from the table.

 

Sally returns and places the document on the table. The court order is real enough and Lestrade reminds himself to thank John for having the foresight to suggest they might need one for the content on Fenway’s hard-drive. The files might be obscured as research notes, but they are technically patient files. As far as they knew, however, Edward Blithely has never been a patient of Fenway and ms. Alton might just have inadvertently given away her client.

 

“This seems to be in order,” Ms. Alton murmurs with great reluctance, “but I still wish to stress that this is an interview. If you intend to charge my client with anything you’d best say so now. As long as this is an interview, Mr. Blithely is under no obligation to discuss his medical history.”

 

Lestrade spreads his hands, “we only wish to hear what Edward Blithely might know about some individuals we are hoping to identify. Individuals you might know by association,” he addresses the last to Edward who runs a hand through his hair again.

 

“Tell me how you know doctor Fenway.”

 

“He was my stepfather’s physician,” Edward shrugs, “I only met him once, when I was quite young. He explained to me why my stepfather…acted as he did. And that’s the only thing I wish to say on the matter.” He pushes the picture back across the table until Sally takes the hint and slides it back into its slot between Glen Reese and Lee Finkle.

 

“Describe to me your relationship with Lee Finkle. Did you know her in her capacity as a lawyer or a psychologist?”

 

“Psychologist.” There’s a tightness in Edward’s eyes as the confession slips unwillingly past his lips. Ms. Alton scribbles something in her notes with an expression like she’s realizing that her client is walking on dangerously thin ice.

 

Edward is obviously reading the same warning signals for he straightens his posture, his tone deepening as he adds, “I was her patient for a short period after my sister committed suicide. I am not willing to discuss my medical history further.”

 

“You claimed to not know any of these individuals,” Lestrade nods to the pictures, “explain to me why you just thought it necessary to lie about it?”

 

“I didn’t lie,” Edward bites. He straightens the collar on his shirt. “I just….it was a long time ago. It’s…not a period that I try to think about, inspector, I have done my best to put it behind me and move on.”

 

“I want to talk you about the Support Group that Lee Finkle arranged for you to participate in.”

 

Lestrade ignores Sherlock’s voracious attempt to get him back on his preferred path of inquiry. Lestrade smiles through Sherlock and John’s rather heated discussion on the other side, while Sally Donovan hides her annoyance by scowling at her paperwork.

 

“My client has already said that he’s not interested in discussing personal medical matters,” ms. Alton says.

 

“I understand,” Lestrade says calmly, John’s voice soft in his ear, “but this Support Group was not part of a medical treatment plan nor was it conducted within the borders of any medical institutes. It is simply not protected by the same privacy as the patient confidentiality clause.”

 

Ms. Alton doesn’t even falter.

 

“My client is here out of kindness and a desire to help the police find the perpetrator behind the vicious murders. If your intention here is to dredge up traumatic incidents then I will recommend to my client that we leave at once.”

 

“No,” Edward’s voice sharp where his lawyer’s been verging on shrill.

 

The room is silent for a heartbeat. Edward seems to recover some of his earlier confidence. His lips are curled in a mockery of a smile and there’s an angry shade of red creeping along his neck. Sally notices the sudden change in demeanour. Sally’s posture suddenly tense, mirroring Edward’s.

 

“I mean,” Edward’s smile loosens a little, “it’s hardly a secret. I’ve already confessed on national television that I tried to murder my own mother and that my sister committed suicide. Of course I required professional aid to sort through the trauma. I was a patient of Lee Finkle for two years, several years ago,” he tells Lestrade. “Mandatory counselling, while sentenced to the youth center. But I was never part of any Support Groups.”

 

Lestrade makes a show of scribbling down this information, hating how this man has a reasonable explanation for everything.

 

“I’d like to talk to you a bit about your stepfather, if we could,” Lestrade says, “you….exposed his crimes on national television, but he’s not on the List you published.”

 

“As you said, I had already told the nation of his crimes,” Edward replies, “there wasn’t any reason to add his name on the List.”

 

“And in all the years you suffered your stepfather’s abuse, you never tried to get help from a teacher, a friend, a neighbour?”

 

Edward’s face contorts into a monstrous grimaces. He slams his fist into the table with such ferocity that even his composed lawyer is startled.

 

“Of course I did,” his voice drips with venom, “but he was a prominent man and nobody believed me. And then,” he leans back, wets his lips, “and then Fenway tells me how it’s….that there’s nothing wrong in what we- what he is doing. That it’s by nature’s design.”

 

Lestrade tries to ignore the sound of Sherlock’s buzzing voice as his mind tries to sort through Edward’s words. Had it been a slip of the tongue?

 

“What?” Lestrade says, and all three pairs of eyes turns to him, Sally’s with a warning glare.

 

“Would you mind telling me about your connection to Joseph Braithsworth?”

 

Edward lifts his chin and gives Lestrade a glare that could curdle milk. For a moment, Lestrade thinks that maybe, just maybe, Edward’s facade is going to give. A slight twitch of a brow, a nervous glance at his lawyer, at the door, or anything. The whole room holds its breath. Ms. Alton, sensing the tension, but uncertain of the cause poises to interview on behalf of her client, but then-

 

-Edward shakes his head and folds his hands on the table, his self-confident smirk finding its way back to his lips. Not for the first time, Lestrade remembers that Edward is a professional actor: he’s working from a script while the rest of them are trying to figure out which role he’s playing. Main lead, obviously, but is he the antagonist or just the stand in for the real villain?

 

Edward clears his throat, preparing to answer Lestrade when there is a knock on the door so sharp that it makes Edward jolt in his seat.

 

Lestrade frowns at Sally, who shrugs her surprise at the detective inspector. With a sigh, Lestrade reads the formalities before pausing the interview again and moving to the door.

 

Standing outside is a young constable with a birthmark covering half of his handsome face. His hands are clasped at the small of his back, but the uneven tapping of his left foot betrays his nervousness. Lestrade hunches his shoulders, braces himself for what his hunch is telling him is more bad news.

 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

 

“What is it?”

 

“There’s a delivery, sir.”

 

Lestrade schools his features before his unease becomes visible. No need to shoot the messenger.

 

“Well, hand it over,” Lestrade extends his hand, making grabbing movements with his fingers.

 

“Oh, sorry, sir. It’s not for you, it’s for him, sir, Edward Blithely. It’s downstairs, sir, they are trying to determine if it is safe.”

 

The following minutes are rather hectic.

 

There are rigorous protocols to follow: the building is evacuated, the unlucky delivery guy is detained to be questioned for hours, the bomb squad is summoned and are discussing the best way to approach the package, when Sherlock calmly points out that bombs seldom bleed.

 

John texts Mycroft with an update, who assures John that Sam might as well stay until next morning, as they are both occupied with something Mycroft calls a fiendish puzzle. John half suspects they might be watching them on CCTV.

 

It takes another hour of additional screening and testing before the package is declared safe to open and they decide to bring it down to the old mortuary, which is still semi-operational.

 

The package itself looks inconspicuous: brown paper, tied up with string. There’s a label on with neat, computer typing reading: _Mr. Edward Blithely, New Scotland Yard, Interview Room_.

 

One of the corners is completely soaked through with blood, leaving a red smear when the package is placed on a metal trolley and wheeled down the corridor.

 

“I have no idea what this is about,” Edward says, his eyes darting from the package to his lawyer. Her lips have grown very thin and very white.

 

“I insist that we be permitted to be present to be sure there is no-“

 

“Are you insinuating that the Metropolitan Police intend to, what-“ Sally Donovan doesn’t spend many seconds finding the last words, “frame your client?”

 

Judging from Ms. Alton’s vicious glare, it is exactly what she is insinuating. She smoothly paves over Donovan’s indignant huff with a list of legal precedents, bylaws and Sections curtailing the police’s right to what is, technically, her client’s property and their lack of a search warrant and how mr. Blithely is an innocent bystander in all this. Even before she reaches the end of her impressive monologue, Lestrade is raising his hands in surrender.

 

“By all means, Ms. Alton. You and your client are more than welcome to observe, and explain, the content of this highly suspicious package.”

 

Ms. Alton’s scowl is replaced by a satisfied smirk. John, however, cannot help but notice that Edward seems suddenly regretful of his lawyer’s legal talent. His hands are clenched into white fists as if he is angry. To John, Edward’s anxiousness is a palpable thing. When Lestrade gestures for them to follow him down the corridor towards the old mortuary, Edward’s eyes linger on the exit with a calculating look. John dithers at the back of the room, half waiting for Edward to make a run for it, and is poised to intercede. In the end, Edward trails down the corridor, his hands curling and uncurling.

 

John, Edward and ms. Alton pile into the observation room where they can view the mortuary behind the glass window. It’s not the first time John is visiting the morgue at the New Scotland Yard, but he has always felt like an interloper and that no matter where he stands, he is in the way of the professionals. The way Sherlock moves around the room, wheeling out a gurney, flicking on the lights and locating the necessary instruments, reminds John how at ease he is in this environment and how he enjoys observing the detective in his natural habitat. It’s a stark reminder of the tentative, truce, or peace, that’s settled over 221B with all their unsaid words scattered about the apartment like a minefield.

 

Ms. Alton’s sharp voice drags John away from further analysis of his promising metaphor.

 

“I insist on a video recording of the proceedings,” she demands, much to Lestrade’s dismay who has to send Donovan back upstairs to find the necessary equipment.

 

Twenty minutes passes in terse silence while Donovan attaches a tiny camera to a tripod and fixes a cordless microphone on the attending coroner. Meanwhile, Sherlock hovers in the corner, a dark spectre with carnivorous eyes fixed on the packed.

 

John doesn’t doubt that the Alpha has deduced what lies inside and is just waiting to have his suspicions confirmed so he can make the next logical leap. John’s keen sense of smell has already navigated past the scent of paper and murky water to recognize the odour of decay. A body part. But is it human or animal?

 

“Been a while since I’ve seen one of these,” Albert Thompson says as he pulls on his blue latex gloves. He, makes a note of the dark, leaking substance, identifying it as probably being blood. “During my second year in London we had this would-be-serial killer who liked to send the police bits of his victims in the post.”

 

“Daniel Smithson,” Sherlock says, “caught when the neighbour below him in the apartment complex complained about a blocked drainage and the plumber found half of a human jaw stuffed down the drain.”

 

“That’s right,” Thompson says, “killed and maimed three homeless women. The police found most of their remains in his freezer, but he’d tried to get rid of identifying marks by cutting them up and shoving them down the drain.” He takes a deep breath, “well, let’s see what we got here.”

 

Sherlock orbits Thompson like a satellite while the old doctor unwraps the package, speaking loudly and slowly to the camera while he works. “The package is 10 inches long and 10 inches high. It weighs,” he puts the package carefully on a scale, “ 9.7 pounds.”

 

Too slowly by Sherlock’s standards, who has his hands balled into fists to keep himself from interfering.

 

It’s not the first time Sherlock’s talents have reached their limits due to a lack of evidence or the interference of procedures that need to be followed. It’s been a recurring theme in this case, and John knows it is probably by Moriarty’s design. He has constructed an impossible case, a case that has seeped into social media, that involves all of London and where the majority of its residents dislikes Alphas. Sherlock is balancing on a knife’s edge and if he strays but a little the consequences could be dire. Is this Moriarty’s game? Watching Sherlock’s walk through a minefield and waiting - _hoping_ he’ll make a single misstep?

 

Ms. Alton is watching like a hawk, and right now, they don’t need to give her any reason to dismiss what might be their first, obvious (painfully obvious,) clue.

 

Thompson pulls at the string at it slides loose. He then uses a scalpel to slice the sellotape and carefully peels open the wrapping paper.

 

The paper falls aside neatly.

 

Inside is a human head.

 

It sits in the middle of a growing puddle of blood and water as it slowly thaws. The skin is still white from frost. The black hair is slicked back and styled- as if somebody gave him a haircut before they decapitated him.

 

Lestrade curses and Donovan twists away, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

 

Beside him, Edward Blithely sucks in a sharp breath. He shuffles a few steps backwards, trying to put some distance between himself and the gristly sight. Ms. Alton looks like she’s bitten into something vile, but it is too polite to spit it out. She latches onto Edward’s arm, rooting him in place and hisses something into his ear.

 

John steals a glance at them, looking for any signs of recognition or cues from the lawyer to Edward. But for the first time, the suave and unflappable man loses control of his expression. He is terrified.

 

John glances through the window, but he can only see the back of the head. It’s angled to perfectly stare at Sherlock and John tries to catch the detective’s eyes. It’s been such a long time since he’s seen the Alpha frightened that at first John doesn’t recognize the emotion. It’s instinct that propels him from the observation room and to Sherlock’s side. He places a hand on Sherlock’s arm, a gentle reassurance of his presence. His own heart skips a beat when he feels the tremors vibrating through his limbs. Sherlock’s breath shakes as he opens his mouth to speak.

 

“Well,” Thompson interrupts, “you’re all acting like this is your first autopsy. Haven’t you ever seen a severed, human head before?”

 

He laughs, like he’s trying to defuse the tension.

 

Lestrade returns, his face twisted into a grimace. He stares at Sherlock, at John and then at the head on the table.

 

“Well,” he snaps, “is it him?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says slowly, his gaze not leaving the head, “it’s Moriarty.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S 
> 
> I know nothing about legal procedures or police interviews. The data for the patient estimate is taken from this page: https://www.quora.com/How-many-patients-does-a-physician-see-in-their-lifetime


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the Christmas fluff chapter I never thought I´d write. 
> 
> So, if you do not like fluff, this might not be the chapter for you. There, is, however, the occasional angst and subtle hints....
> 
> Along with the usual warnings found in the tags, I feel it necessary to include an additional warning for tooth-rooting fluff and sweetness. (However, if you take this chapter to your dentist, you are on your own.) 
> 
> Applauds to my beta CowMow who helped me edit this chapter and put some of her own touches to it. As always, thanks to all of you who support me with your comments and kudos, it is basically, what keeps this story alive.
> 
> Please see the End Notes for additional notes, links and spoilers.

**Warning: brief and non-explicit talk about past mpreg and medical issues.**

 

**Chapter twenty.**

 

One second.

 

Two.

 

Three.

 

No pulse.

 

John tries to pull free of the nightmare. He knows that Sherlock is alive and safe and here with John and Sam and that it wasn’t….isn’t real. But the dream won’t let him go.

 

Sherlock’s still body beneath his hands.

 

Blood on the pavement.

 

He wakes with a start, tangled in bedsheets and blinking the room into focus. He drags a hand across his face, tries to wipe the images away. It takes him a moment to recognize Sam’s eyes watching him. Curious. Worried.

 

_Morning,_ John says. He forces the last remnants of his nightmare far away from his son, afraid they might be infectious. _What is going on?_

 

_A tree, daddy,_ Sam’s excitement is making his signing so sloppy they are difficult to follow.

 

_A what?_ John pulls himself up in bed. Sam tugs on his duvet.

 

_A tree!_

 

John remembers falling asleep to the dulcet tones of Sherlock’s violin. The cast hadn’t seemed to hinder him and the detective had been playing nonstop since they returned from the Yard, drifting like a rudderless ship around and around in their living room.

 

He hadn’t recognized any of the music. He even suspected that some might have been of Sherlock’s own composition. Mournful tunes that sent shivers down his spine and chased him off to their bedroom. He felt helpless and useless against Sherlock’s mounting silence and refusal to discuss the sudden turn of the case. Eventually, John collapsed in bed exhausted and restless, haunted by his Alpha’s troubles. However, as he tucked his pillow firmly under his head and curled up on Sherlock’s side, (because they had sides now) he almost thought he recognized the first strings from _Good King Wenceslas._

 

The room is gloomy and cold. Ashen light seeps through the slit in the curtains, telling him it´s nearing midday. Snowflakes brush against the window.

 

_Did your uncle Mycroft drop you off?_ It’s an unnecessary question, for Mycroft’s influence is obvious in Sam’s choice of wardrobe. Soft jeans with that designed worn look, and a finely knitted dark blue sweater, soft to the touch. He sees edges of a stark red shirt poking out like a swallow’s tail on his back.

 

John had only once attempted to broach the subject of the necessity for such expensive clothes for a child who would outgrow them in a month or two. It hadn’t really been a discussion as much as a slight whitening of the lips and one leg crossed over the other and then Mycroft had given his newspaper a firm shake. John had figured that as long as Sam was comfortable and happy, he wouldn’t think too hard about his expensive shoes getting wet and dirty.

 

_Mycroft had to go to work,_ Sam explains with wild, fumbling gestures, _but he likes the tree!_

 

_What did you say?_

 

_A tree,_ Sam insists, shaking his shoulders again, _daddy, there is a tree in the living room_.

 

Sam shuffles backwards until he can slide off the bed, dragging the duvet and blanket with him as he goes, letting in an icy breeze on John’s bare legs.

 

_Give me that, it’s cold_ , John tugs playfully at the duvet. It results in a brief skirmish between the two until John’s rolled Sam up in the duvet so only the top of his hair is showing and his tiny body is riveted by laughter.

 

_Did you say there’s a tree downstairs,_ John asks when he’s unwrapped his son and they’ve both recovered their breath. He smooths back an errant lock of hair and reminds himself to talk to Mycroft about that haircut.

 

_Come. See._ Sam slips out of the bed and this time he grabs hold of John’s hand and hauls him up. John cringes as his bare feet touch the cold floor. Much to Sam’s chagrin, he insists on finding a pair of socks, slippers, trousers, sweater and his morning robe before he enters the living room.

 

Sam is still holding onto his hand, turning every few steps to assure himself that John is still following.

 

_Look,_ Sam signs with his free hand and points at the ridiculously large fir tree standing in the living room. The star at the top is touching the ceiling. It’s decorated with lights, tinsel and Christmas ornaments in different shapes and colours. Candy canes. Stars. Gilded pinecones and woodland creatures. It’s the most wonderful thing John has ever seen.

 

_It’s a Christmas tree,_ Sam signs. He lets go of John’s hand and ever so gently touches a gleaming red ornament.

 

Before John has worked out the appropriate response, or questions, Sherlock appears next to him and presses a hot cup of tea into John’s hand.

 

“Good morning,” he says and presses his lips softly to John’s cheek.

 

John smiles and wraps his hands around the warm ceramic. As he takes a sip, he watches Sherlock join Sam, crouching down to be on eye-level with the boy.

 

_Would please help me with the breakfast, Sam_? Sherlock is signing with such grace and fluidity, you’d think he’s been doing it his whole life.

 

Sam nods vigorously and trots towards the kitchen _. Eggs,_ Sam signs, _and soldiers. Please._

 

_Certainly_ , replies Sherlock, _and toast with strawberry jam_.

 

_No cucumbers._

 

John lets the warmth of the teacup seep into his cold fingers. He stands there, staring at the Christmas tree for a moment, half picking up the sounds of Sam and Sherlock pottering around in the kitchen. The fridge door opening and closing. A pot being filled with water. Drawers and cupboards being opened and closed again. He takes another sip of his tea and is not even slightly surprised to find that it is absolutely perfect.

 

For breakfast Sherlock prepares soft-boiled eggs, fried mushrooms, beans and tomatoes. There’s a rack of toast, butter, glasses of orange juice and milk. The table is set with matching plates, cutlery and white napkins with tiny Christmas trees in gold. Sam has milk on his nose and a smudge of butter on his cheek and a wide grin on his face. He instructs John to cut his toast up in exactly six soldiers, diagonally, and dips the breadsticks into the jam, juice, milk and John’s tea.

 

_After breakfast,_ Sherlock signs when Sam shows the first signs of fidgeting, _we will go to Harrods._

 

John doesn’t choke on his tea, but it’s a near thing.

 

_Harrods_ , John replies, _why on Earth would we go to Harrods?_

 

John has only visited Harrods once. He remembers just enough about the experience to know that he hated every second of it.

 

_“_ Well _”,_ Sherlock starts, collecting a few plates and moves them to the counter. He twits the lid onto the jam jar and places it into the fridge. John watches him move, enthralled by the simple domesticity of it. Sherlock slides behind Sam and places his hands softly over his ears so that the tips of his fingers cover his eyes.

 

“Obviously, there will be Christmas gifts and Father Christmas.”

 

Sam giggles and tugs at Sherlock’s fingers until he can peel them away. He gives Sherlock a look that can only be described as fond. _No,_ Sam laughs, pulling free of Sherlock’s embrace.

 

“Obviously,” John says around the lump in his throat.

 

John goes upstairs to quickly shower and dress. He tries not to feel worried about Sherlock’s sudden descent into madness. First the Christmas tree, and now Harrods. What is going on? During the first year of their acquaintance when December came, there hadn’t been as much as a Christmas card in their apartment. John hadn’t really minded. Christmas was always about family and at that time he didn’t have the strength to navigate the dysfunctional waters of Harriet’s drinking and Clara’s sorrowful sighs.

 

His first Christmas in 221 B had been spent shivering on a dark corner for a stake out that turned out to be a bust. At midnight they’d gone home and ordered Chinese. Sherlock had played the violin and John had read a biography about Churchill. It had been nice. Normal.

 

Maybe, John thinks as he buttons up his shirt, Sherlock is trying to distract himself from thinking about the implications of Moriarty’s head in that box. In the old days, before.... before everything changed, Sherlock would simply have locked himself away in his Mind Palace, or, if Mycroft´s stories are true- indulged in his special solution. John understands the consequences of drug use far too well. The knowledge makes his hand tremble, the button slipping from his grasp. Christmas extravagance is certainly far better than his old habits. John will embrace all the nuances of Christmas madness if that is what it takes to keep Sherlock’s mind occupied.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A few minutes later they are standing on the sidewalk, blinking fat flakes of snow out of their eyelashes. Sam points and squeals at the snowflakes and John takes a firm hold of his hand before he chases one down the street.

 

“Let’s take the tube to Marble Arch,” Sherlock suggests, “and then walk through Hyde Park. It’s a nice enough day for it.”

 

“Sure,” John agrees easily and gives his son’s hand a careful tug, getting his attention.

 

_We’re taking the tube,_ John explains. _Remember the rule?_

 

_Always hold your hand_ , Sam signs dutifully.

 

At the stairs to the underground station, Sam extends his arms to John who hoists him up and tucks him against his hip. His son clings to him as they scan their Oyster cards and board the train, staring at the other passengers with large, measuring eyes.

 

They find an empty seat, but Sherlock remains standing, his good arm hooked around the support rod, looming over them. Sam has one hand fisted in John’s collar, while his other hand is clutching his toy dog. John feels strangely satisfied with the normalcy of it all. Taking the tube, just like one of thousands of other Londoners without the shadow of one of Mycroft’s men, at least none that he can see. It feels nice, to be boxed in by Sherlock’s large frame. Safe.

 

John tries to catch Sherlock’s eyes so that he can read his expression, but the detective’s attention is firmly fixed on his phone.

 

“I’m making a list,” Sherlock says to John’s unanswered question. “What do you think we should get Lestrade for Christmas?”

 

Christmas presents?

 

The only person John’s bought Christmas presents for had been Sam and buying presents for a toddler was easy. Toys. Books. Puzzles. What on Earth would you get a Detective Inspector?

 

“I don’t know,” John hedges, “a scarf?”

 

“Hmm,” is the only response Sherlock will give.

 

It’s only one stop to Marble Arch, but John is still glad to be back above ground, among the snowfall and the fresh air. Sherlock tugs the collars of his coat up while John manages to pry a woolly hat over Sam’s curls without any arguments.

 

It’s just past noon, but the weather is keeping most lunch-goers indoors. Sam sticks close to John, one hand tucked safely in his, the other one keeping his toy dog secure. A few steps inside the park, John’s grip on Sam’s hand tightens. Sherlock slips his phone into his pocket and John feels the Alpha’s body going tense.

 

A large group is gathered at Speaker’s Corner, dark figures of young men and a few women. They stand huddled together like penguins against the cold. A red-faced youth is standing on top of an old patio chair, shaking a fist at the crowd.

 

“The police and the government think we’ll lose interest,” he yells, “they are just waiting for some scandal to preoccupy us. As if we are children, as if our attention can be so easily swayed.”

 

Several people cheer, some shake their fists at the speaker, two men spit on the ground and curse. Sam presses himself close to John’s legs and John gives his hand a reassuring squeeze as he gently leads him past the crowd.

 

“They think we’re just a mob. They don’t realize that we’re a grassroot movement,” the guy shouts, “our agenda is political. They can pretend we don’t exist; they can try to ignore us. In fact, we’re happy if they do. It only means they will regret it so much more when we prove to them what we really are.” The speaker gives a dramatic pause before he trusts his finger into the sky. “We’re an idea, we’re the change that is coming. A wind will sweep over London, and when it is done there will be no place for the Alphas to cower. No law for them to hide behind, no vile excuses for their filth. They say they are a product of nature, a design of biology that they cannot control. Well, we will do with them the same we do with the other misfits of nature, the psychopaths, the sociopaths, the paedophiles and murderers that corrupt our society. We will lock them up and drive them away!”

 

John hears eager murmurs of consent. Several people are nodding their heads, there’s a scattered attempt at an applause that dwindles when it becomes apparent that the speaker isn’t done.

 

“We have already collected thousands of signatures. With the help of your name we force the Parliament to debate it and force the government to give us their response. We will force them to take us seriously and to listen to Blithley’s demands!”

 

Another cheer erupts from the group and John sees a clipboard being passed around. People eagerly sign their names.

 

He urges Sam forward. His son walks ahead, only once casting an anxious glance over his shoulder. He doesn’t shake his haunted expression until Sherlock takes his other hand.

 

The rest of the walk through the park is pleasant. The snow is settling, covering the benches and the trees and the grass. Sam trudges happily through the snow. Now and again he’ll stop and examine his footprints and compare them to John’s and Sherlock’s. This naturally leads to Sherlock kneeling in the snow, giving a patient and detailed lesson about the different things one might observe from a particular footprint. He explains how you can easily deduce a person’s height from the size of shoe when combined with the length of his stride. The depth of the print will tell you something about the person’s weight while the pattern will reveal the method of his gait.

 

Sam looks on, one hand clutching John’s leg, but his focus is fully on Sherlock. John can’t really tell how much of the explanation he understands, but when the resume their walk, his expression is thoughtful.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Harrods is teeming with people. There are hundreds of people milling about outside, staring at the window displays, talking excitedly while children press their noses to the glass.

 

_Elephant,_ Sam signs eagerly, stretching his arms towards the display almost dropping his toy in his eagerness. Sherlock swiftly swings him up on his shoulders, tucking Sam’s legs safely under his arms. They end up at the back of the crowd staring at the large, mechanical elephant decorated with lights and bright colours, surrounded by jewellery and women in glittering cocktails dresses. Now and again it moves its massive head, turning to study the audience and making Sam shiver in joy.

 

The inside of the store is no less crowded, people swarm everywhere, carrying their green and gold bags, arms burdened by their heavy winter coats. John sees Sam tense up at the sight of the crowd and for a moment he dreads the telltale signs of a tantrum and a demand to return to the far more interesting elephant display. Sherlock lowers him gently to the floor and starts unbuttoning his coat and pulling off his hat and scarfs.

 

_There will be many interesting things to see,_ Sherlock promises, though Sam isn't convinced. He fidgets against Sherlock’s attempt to work his zipper.

 

_Otters?_ Sam asks hopefully. Sherlock smooths back his hair, peels off his gloves and tucks them into the pockets of his coat.

 

_Something just as great as otters_.

 

Sam looks dubious and scuffs the tip of his boots against the floor. He’s not reassured, but he is curious. He tucks his scarf into Sherlock’s pocket and wraps both his hands into the fur of his canine plushie. He looks to John, apparently needing a second testimony to Sherlock’s promise before agreeing to anything.

 

_You’ll like it_ , John says.

 

“Mr. Holmes, I presume?”

 

A sleek, pale figure in a dark suit and shoes so shiny John can see his own reflection moves into view.

 

Sherlock rises slowly, his eyes trailing over the elderly gentleman standing before them. His brow narrows. He purses his lips.

 

“Did Mycroft send you?”

 

“My name is Percival Butterfield. I have been assigned to be your personal shopper today and to make your experience at Harrods as pleasurable as possible.”

 

“Should have known he’d interfere,” Sherlock turns to the nearest CCTV camera with a scoff. Percival Butterfield politely ignores this and instead turns to John.

 

“May I take your coat, sir? They will be stored safely in our cloakroom.”

 

“Sure,” John says before Sherlock can voice his objection. If Sherlock insist on doing their posh Christmas shopping at Harrods, then John is going to indulge in Mycroft’s extravagance. He hands over his coat and Sam’s, and after a sigh, Sherlock shrugs out of his Belstaff and hands it over.

 

“A moment, sirs,” Butterfield says. He turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd of shoppers.

 

_Well, this is nice of Mycroft, isn’t it?_ John says. Sam glances between his parents, as if he’s gauging their reaction to assuage his own.

 

_Very nice,_ Sherlock replies, his gestures sharp.

 

He tucks an arm into the crock of Sherlock’s, oddly satisfied to feel the Alpha relax against him. They both keep an eye on Sam as he walks over to examine a large, bronzed reindeer. Its antlers are decked with tinsel, scarfs, mittens, gloves and long necklaces.

 

“You had a list,” John prompts.

 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock begins, “Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft.”

 

“And Mrs. Kettle,” John adds.

 

“Hm,” John squeezes Sherlock’s arm and lowers his voice conspiratorially, “you should let Sam pick out a dreadful outfit for Mycroft. A horrid Christmas sweater or a ghastly tie. He’d feel obligated to wear it.”

 

The prospect of Mycroft’s impending embarrassment seems to cheer him up and by the time Mr. Butterfield arrives and Sam has pulled down half the scarves on the reindeer, Sherlock is smiling.

 

Mr. Butterfield guides them through a selection of gifts suggestions. A laptop for Mrs. Hudson, a scarf and a toy police car for Lestrade, a gift basket for Mrs. Kettle. “I have the perfect gift for Molly already arranged,” Sherlock says when Mr. Butterfield suggests they sample some perfumes suitable for “young ladies”.

 

Their guide ensures that their purchases are taken away to be expertly wrapped and stored until they leave. Sam’s an eager participant at first, pointing at people (the woman in blue, Sherlock says, is buying gifts far above her means to impress her friends. See, expensive coat, cheap shoes, fake purse) and the magnificent displays.

 

An hour later, they have made their way to the fourth floor. Sam is dangling by John’s hand with a sullen expression, scuffing his shoes against the floor while Sherlock looks like he’s calculating the distance to the nearest exit. It had been a pleasant hour, John reflects, they’d picked out all the presents they needed and it had felt perfectly normal and ordinary. There’s a limit to the amount of domesticity any of them can stomach and John is about to suggest they call it quits, when Mr. Butterfield produces three tickets.

 

“And this is for the Christmas Grotto,” he explains, “Mr. Holmes insisted.”

 

John is ready to decline when he catches sight of Sherlock. His eyes have that downward pull to them, at the other corners, like something’s been knocked loose in him. His stomach slowly turns over; he’s not sure what to make of Sherlock’s expression. He closes the distance between them and puts a hand on his arm, a fleeting pressure of reassurance. John is about to declare that they are going to leave, when Sherlock reaches out and accepts the tickets.

 

“Thank you,” he says.

 

Sam, who’s been watching the exchange and picking up on the tension has a finger tucked against his lower lip and his hand knotted in John’s jumper.

 

_We’ll see Father Christmas’s workshop_ , Sherlock kneels, gently freeing Sam’s grip, _and then Father Christmas._

 

_Who?_

 

_Father Christmas visits children on Christmas Eve and gives them presents._

_Why?_

John turns the question around in his head, trying to skip ahead of an answer that doesn’t include Myrrh being a nice perfume to put on dead bodies to make them smell nice, and as a gift, it symbolized Jesus’s impending death.

 

_There are many answers_ , Sherlock starts, _tradition, religion, getting people to spend more money, to be nice to friends and family._

_Okay_ , Sam says.

 

He tucks his hand into Sherlock’s and lets him lead the way to a large, dark green sign. It’s decorated with mistletoe, red ribbons and candy canes that proclaim in gold letters that this is the entrance to Father Christmas’s workshop. There’s fake, old-fashioned log cabin panelling on the walls, and stones on the floors, lights and colours and tinsel and Christmas trees and toys upon toys. Pictures in colourful frames decorate the walls, accompanied by paper strings, bells and ribbons and lights in every colour. There are children everywhere, shrieking with joy or shuffling wide-eyed next to their parents.

 

Sam clings to Sherlock’s hand, though now and again he’ll tug him over to inspect a toy, a Christmas tree or an ornament, always at a safe distance. Sherlock waits, patiently answering Sam’s questions until his son’s satisfied and ready to move on. Step by step they make their way across the room while John tries to be subtle about taking pictures and filming it and feeling ridiculously happy.

 

Afterwards, by some miracle, they manage to find a quiet corner in the cafe. Sam is working his way through pieces of fruit and the anatomy puzzle on John’s phone, while John enjoys a cup of tea.

 

“I used to come here with Mycroft,” Sherlock say suddenly. The words hang there, alone, three seconds-ten, and John thinks that’s all Sherlock’s going to say, when he clears his throat.

 

“He put in a lot of effort to convince me Father Christmas was real. Sometimes I thought he did it because he could, to show me he was the clever one. I had done the math and knew it was impossible. The centrifugal forces alone would kill him and vaporize the reindeer. But then, I realized he was doing it because he wanted to be nice, to make Christmas nice, so I let him believe I was fooled.”

 

John circles his fingers gently around Sherlock’s wrist, before sliding them down to cover his hand, lacing their fingers together, and smiles.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Some time later, they are back at Baker Street. By the time John has managed to free Sam from the car seat, the driver and Sherlock have already carried their purchases upstairs.

 

“You need to stay out of the flat for a moment,” Sherlock declares, “there are….things… to be sorted.” He’s not even trying to be subtle.

 

“Sure.”

 

John and Sam spend a few minutes outside’s Speedy’s cafe. Sam ambles through the snow until his cheeks are red, studying his footprints and making John produce his own for comparison.

 

Eventually, the wind drives them inside, shivering and huddling against the cold. In the corridor they meet Mrs. Hudson who insists they join her for something warm to drink and a bite to eat. She struggles through the few signs she knows and tries to engage Sam in a conversation, but Sam’s attention is fully on the mountain of cookies and cakes she places on the table.

 

“It’s so nice to have things returned to normal,” she says as she fills John’s cup.“The way it ought to be.”

 

John takes shelters from her probing eyes behind the rim of his cup. “Hmm.” Personally, he thinks he could do without the visits from assassins and foreign agents.

 

“Though this Alpha business,” she murmurs, “it’s dreadful, the things you see on the telly.”

 

John knows Mrs. Hudson well enough to recognize when she’s fishing for information.

 

“It’s unpleasant,” he agrees, “but people seem to think it will die down eventually.”

 

Mrs. Hudson huffs, settling down in the chair across from John. She pushes the plate of biscuits closer to Sam who accepts it eagerly, dipping them in his glass of milk and generally making a bit of a mess.

 

“I’m not so sure,” Mrs. Hudson says, “Mary seems to think that failing to take this seriously will have dire consequences. How did she put it….yes, “it’s too late to take precautions after the house is on fire.””

 

“Demanding change through violence isn’t a good precedent to set,” John murmurs.

 

“My former husband was an Alpha,” Mrs. Hudson says. John can’t hide his surprise fast enough to stop it from reaching his face. He’s only heard passing mention of the former Mr. Hudson, that Sherlock helped ensure he was convicted and executed in Florida.

 

“Things are different, overseas,” Mrs. Hudson continues, kindly ignoring John’s flickering gaze. “Alphas are Alphas they’d say, like their harassments and violence were just a way of showing affection. Did you know that in some states it is still legal for parents to arrange Bonding for their children? They are even allowed to accept bridal fee. The police will always look the other way in a crime where an Alpha is involved. Getting one convicted is almost unheard of. If it hadn’t been for Sherlock, I’m certain Frank would-“ She presses her lips to a trembling line and lets John’s imagination finish the rest of the sentence.

 

And it does.

 

In vivid detail, stark, harsh colours and dissonant soundtrack. It’s easy to do. It’s the same thoughts and fears that plagued him when he sat down in doctor Fenway’s office for the first time, after barely escaping being sexually assaulted. There had been no lucky escape for Glen Reese or anybody else on Edward’s list. And those responsible had walked free, to take more lives.

 

The downwind spiral of his thoughts is thankfully derailed by Sam when he accidentally knocks over his glass of milk. Tears need to be wiped away and reassurances given, milk and crumbs cleaned up. When they are finished, Sam is sitting in John’s lap, sniffling and feeling rather sorry for himself.

 

“It’s quite alright, dearie,” Mrs. Hudson shushes, “I got some crayons and some paper, maybe that would be better?” She pushes her chair back from the kitchen table and disappears into the living room. Mrs. Hudson returns with a thick notebook and a new package of crayons. Sam makes grabby hands as soon as he spots them.

 

_Give!_

 

_Let’s not forget our manners,_ John gently instructs.

 

_Please,_ Sam says, dipping his chin and staring at Mrs. Hudson from under his long lashes. It’s a look that would have melted the coldest of hearts.

 

She hands the crayons to Sam, who is bouncing in his seat from joy. He takes out each crayon, carefully studying it before lining them up on the table.

 

_Thank you,_ he signs and John translates and guides Mrs. Hudson through the right hand gestures to say, _you’re welcome, dear._

 

“It was Mary who suggested I keep some around,” Mrs. Hudson says to Sam. He’s bent over the paper, chubby fingers wrapped around a crayon. He draws two squiggly circles, with four lines extending from the largest one, arms and legs.

 

“He’s always liked to draw.”

 

John returns to his tea and they spend a few moments in a comfortable silence only broken by the sound of crayons scraping across paper.

 

Sherlock appears, still dressed in his coat, scarf tied loosely around his neck.

 

“Ah, here you are.”

 

“Good afternoon, Sherlock, would you like a cup?” Mrs. Hudson is already out of her chair, making a beeline for the kettle.

 

Sherlock seems to hesitate, taking in the tableau and calculating how he’d fit around the table. John hates that Sherlock can still have these moments of hesitation and uncertainty, that he can look at John and Sam like they might suddenly disappear. Like John might do something insane, like leave. They live together, they share a bed together. John had put it on the record, hadn’t he?

 

“I’ll get you a cup,” John says, before Sherlock can get lost in his own head, “take my chair.”

 

He finds a clean cup and saucer and places it on the table in front of Sherlock before finding a spare chair for himself.

 

“You will come to Christmas dinner of course,” Sherlock says so matter-of-factly you would think it was an honoured tradition. Mrs. Hudson stares at him. Blinks.

 

“You’re making Christmas dinner?”

 

“I’m preparing turkey for dinner, and a fruitcake for dessert. Mycroft and Mrs. Kettle is coming and so must you.”

 

John tries to deconstruct that statement, wondering where to start: that Sherlock is planning Christmas dinner or that he invited Mycroft? As long as he’s known the Holmes brothers, they haven’t shared as much as a cup of tea together.

 

“Oh, it sounds lovely,” Mrs. Hudson says, clasping her hands together. “I can’t wait.”

 

 

When John wakes up next morning, Sherlock and Sam are already sitting at the kitchen table. There’s a piece of paper on the table between them and Sherlock has drawn the outline of a Christmas tree on it.

 

_You take the height of the Christmas tree_ , he says. Sam’s eyes are glued on him. _Times, thirteen times pi, divided on eight. And then you the perfect length for your tinsel._

 

_What are you doing?_ John asks.

 

_I worked out the formula for the perfect Christmas tree._

_What?_

 

Sherlock’s suffering sigh is entirely put-upon and undeserved.

 

_The science of Christmas tree decorations_ , Sherlock says, _I put it on my blog. It is fairly popular._

 

John finds Sherlock’s blog where he’s written out the math and diagrams for the perfectly decorated Christmas tree. The length of tinsel. The number of baubles and length of lights.

 

“When did you do this?” John asks even if he knows the answer. He sees the muscles in his jaw bunch and relaxes like he’s chewing through several responses, finding the one with the right taste.

 

“I wanted to do something fun with the family,” Sherlock says, surprising John. “Christmas is about fun, isn’t it?”

 

John swallows around the lump in his throat, “yeah, it is.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

During the next couple of days, they spend it being perfectly ordinary and perfectly happy. They share proper, sitting-down-at-the-table breakfast. They spend an evening visiting the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. Sam ooh’s and aah's at the brilliant lights, but is left unconvinced by the grotto. John fails to coax him onto the ice skating rink, but Sam’s more than happy to accept the small flakes of candyfloss. They go to the Christmas market and drink thick, deliciously spiced hot chocolate, admire the Christmas lights in Convent Garden and ride the horse-drawn carriages in Victoria Park. Christmas invades their apartment, tinsel by tinsel. Finely crafted figurines and candle ornaments stand guard on their mantelpiece, brilliantly cut snowflakes with stunning geometrical patterns appear in their window. Sam adores every moment and John finds himself relaxing into the spirit of things.

 

But not quite.

 

In an off-guarded moment, he’ll _see_ Sherlock, the curve of his brows set in a downward slope, inscribing a frown in the centre of his forehead. And he’ll wonder what all this is about.

 

If it’s a distraction, an apology or, worst of all, a goodbye.

John knows that part of Sherlock’s mind must still be wrestling with the implication of Moriarty’s death: somebody else, equally brilliant and fiendish, is playing with Sherlock. Playing like one might do with a cat, holding the string just out of reach. They cannot tie Edward Blithely to the murders, even if they know he must be guilty. They do not know the identity of his co-conspirators, the marine, and the nurse. Even Christmas has not quelled Edward Blithely’s campaign, every day they read about the increasing nature of the violence against Alphas.

 

So, things are obviously not fine.

 

It’s worst at night, when he falls asleep to the melancholy dirges Sherlock coaxes from his violin, and awakes with the images of Sherlock’s lifeless form burnt onto his retina. But the next morning, he will wash away the nightmares with cold water from the tap, and be greeted by Sam and Sherlock in the living room. It will be everything he ever wanted and within the first cup of tea, the dream is a distant memory.

 

But John’s enjoying this Christmas too much to want to poke the bee’s nest.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

By Christmas Eve, Sam is still on the fence on the existence of Father Christmas. It’s impossible for a grown up to fit in the fireplace, as Sam demonstrated when he tried to make Sherlock fit in it. The reindeer seems impractical and it is impossible to fit a sleigh on the roof.

 

_If you don’t go to sleep, he definitely won’t come_ , John reasons.

 

_Why?_

 

John closes his eyes for a moment, flailing. He’s clearly not thought this through. He bids himself time with tucking the duvet securely around Sam and turning on his night light.

 

_Well, if everyone is awake and wants to talk to him when he comes, he won’t get anything done_.

 

_That is a silly,_ Sam signs. John huffs a laugh and brushes Sam’s hair out of his eyes.

 

_Yes, I guess you are_ _right,_ John responds, _but it’s a silly season, we got a tree indoors, we put large red socks by the fireplace and tomorrow, when you wake up, there will be presents in it._

 

_Why did we take the tree inside?_

_Well, I think it’s to remind us that spring is coming_.

 

_Okay,_ Sam signs and John is grateful that, for once, Sam is content with his answers, though he suspects it’s mostly prospect of presents that reins his curiosity.

 

 

After Sam is settled, John finds Sherlock lounging in the living room, draped over the sofa, a few buttons at the collar unbuttoned, giving John a delicious view of the long expanse of his throat. John swallows. It’s an enjoyable sight, but he thinks that now, with Sam settled in for sleep, the apartment calm and sheltered from the storm, if only temporary, now’s the time to take the first few steps into the minefield.

 

He walks over to the bookshelf, feels Sherlock’s eyes, warm and heavy on his back. He finds the folder easily enough, tucked among a few medical journals.

 

“It’s not exactly a Christmas present,” John says, “but I know that you've been wanting this information and that I’ve not been very forthcoming with answers. Read this, and then I’ll answer any question you might have.”

 

John doesn’t know how much Sherlock will read between the lines of the medical dictums and data. Sherlock likes data. He understands facts. He’ll read a diagnosis of toxemia, but he won’t read the doctor’s recommendation of termination of a medical abnormal that they aren’t equipped to handle. That John's insane to even consider. He won’t read John’s vehement refusal, but he’ll count the days John was hospitalized and know by the sum that it was months.

 

John wonders if he’ll recognize the name of the hospital, a private clinic in the north of England where John ended up spending almost an entire year. There are diagrams and charts of the various stages of the pregnancy, and the date of the emergency C-section that pushed Sam’s birthday five weeks early.

 

Sam’s weight at 3lbs 15 oz and 15inch.

 

Sherlock will read Sam’s chart, examining the facts about his stay in the premature ward. Eleven days after he’s born, when he’s stable and when John’s recovered enough to be sitting up, the hospital screens Sam’s hearing. There’ll be some marks on his otoacoustic emissions. Further research is recommended, which later diagnoses auditory neuropathy disorder and total deafness.

 

Sherlock reads, his expression unreadable, but there is pain in the hunched set of his shoulders.

 

“If I had….been around..,” Sherlock’s picking and choosing his words, like he’s navigating uncertain territory. “Would it have made a difference? Would things have….would Sam have….I mean-“

 

John knows what he’s asking: Is it my fault?

 

“Is it your fault? Absolutely not.”

 

“But it would have been better. If I had stayed.”

 

John curls his hands into fists. He fights the urge to respond that, of course, things would have been better if Sherlock hadn’t decided to fake his suicide with John as his primary witness. Of course, things would have been better if John hadn’t had to spend three years believing he was dead, while living under pseudonyms just in case in Moriarty didn’t believe John’s earnest display of grief.

 

He tries to imagine how it would have been if Sherlock had stayed.

 

But not even in his imagination can he conjure up a Sherlock Holmes that wouldn’t have been willing to sacrifice what he thought necessary to keep the people he cared about safe. The acceptance sits heavy in his chest.

 

Sherlock must have felt, John thinks, like he was losing the one game he excelled at, and so he goaded Moriarty to show his hand. And then he discovered that the Omega was playing a whole different game and that Sherlock and John were going to lose.

 

“The best thing is to have you safe, that we are safe,” John says.

 

Sherlock’s mouth curls into a smile John can’t remember seeing before. Very gently, he reaches out and slides his hand around John’s wrist, his long fingers brushing over the knobs of it. John’s eyes drop to see what he’s doing. He sees the hand slide higher, the touch feather light, until it comes to rest in the crook of his elbow.

 

John’s own pulse is drumming under Sherlock’s caress. John tips his head to look up at Sherlock and sees the dent between Sherlock’s brows. Caution. Uncertainty. His eyes flit intently over John’s face though John’s not sure what he’s looking for. Permission? Refusal? A demand that he’d better back off right now?

 

Which is.

You know.

_Unacceptable_.

 

John leans into his touch, curling his hands over Sherlock’s arms where he holds on for a moment. Then he slowly slides his palms up the man’s arms and shoulders and around, between his shoulderblades until he can feel the shift of the muscles on the broad planes of Sherlock’s back. Tilting his head up, he closes the distance between them, pressing his mouth against Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s hand glides along John’s arm, the second joining the first until they are cradling the back of his head, bringing him closer until John feels the slight scratch of Sherlock’s cast against the back of his neck.

 

John presses closer until there’s not a sliver of breath between him and his hands find their way to Sherlock’s hips on their own, dipping under the shirt to taste the warmth of Sherlock’s skin. He finds that he’s greedy for the contact, hands sliding along the narrow breadth of Sherlock’s waist, feeling the sharp jut of his hipbones. Sherlock hums low in his throat, the sound causing John’s hands to dig into Sherlock’s skin so hard he’s almost certain they’ll bruise pale skin.

 

He likes the thought of it. That the suave Alpha, the brilliant detective, this wonderful human being will carry John’s handprints on his skin. It’s such a possessive thought and John tries to ignore it, but his entire body is thrumming with heat and he _wants_. He wants Sherlock to carry the evidence of John’s possession. He wants his own claim of ownership etched into his skin. It’s nothing he’s wanted before and he tries to shut it off until the heat of it tears through this wall that’s kept him safe for years and years, smashes through and floods him with all the emotions and thoughts he’s kept stored away, because his Alpha-

 

-John squeezes his eyes shut without even meaning to, tries to rein in these emotions pouring through him. Chemistry, he thinks desperately. This is neurochemistry, basic biology. Dopamine and oxygen and vasopressin and pheromones and testosterone and love, love love-

 

And it hurts too much to breathe and John gasps and Sherlock takes it as an invitation to slide his tongue past John’s parted lips, swallowing his noises and licking away any doubts John might voice.

 

They part because they need to breathe and John feels Sherlock’s pulse. It’s wild, a ludicrous beat in rhythm with his own. The tip of Sherlock’s nose brushes against the corner of John’s. He doesn’t know if the Alpha is nuzzling him or scenting him, but he finds that he hopes it´s the latter. He wants to say something but finds that his words are stuck in his heart and his chest is tight and it is still hard to think. He swallows, tries to form a sentence in his head when he feels Sherlock’s hands slide down to curl around his shoulders until he’s got John wrapped in an embrace, his nose brushing against his hair and silent words mouthed against the crown of his head.

 

And because he’s lost the ability of rational thought and coherent sentence structure, John says the only thing that comes to him.

 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

 

“Merry Christmas, John.”

 

Odd as it is, John feels like they are, somehow, on the same page, and when he leans up for another kiss, Sherlock leans down as well to meet him halfway. There is no doubt about where this is headed, and though John’s mind is still filled with turmoil and white noise, he clutches Sherlock closer. They land on the bed together, in a messy heap, with tangled jeans and trousers and shirts making movement difficult, but it is glorious and messy and passionate and rough as they tear clothes away and mouths keep finding each other. When Sherlock pushes inside John, something shifts and the room is suddenly quiet. Sherlock is panting, his hair a mess and his eyes wild, and John knows they feel the same. During the first thrust, Sherlock’s eyes remain open and focused right on John's, but soon they fall closed, and their bodies move together like an old dance they have practiced countless times. John holds his Alpha, vulnerable yet powerful, in his arms and closes his eyes as he lets all the sensations – warm, firm, gentle, earthy – wash over him..

Later, they lie coiled together under the covers. Sherlock’s fingers are tracing odd patterns along his arm before he curls around John, wrapping him into a hug. John turns in the embrace to press his face against Sherlock’s chest. He breathes in his scent in great lungsful, the air tangy and sweaty and spiced with sex. _Mine_ , his mind sings, _mine, mine, mine_. A warm sigh caresses his cheek, and even as Sherlock breaths even out to the burring rhythm of sleep, his grip doesn’t slip away.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Christmas morning slips in, dark and only accompanied by the distant sound of a siren somewhere in London. Sam crawls into their bed around six am and John is grateful that he had the foresight to suggest that they dress before falling asleep. Sherlock sleeps like a starfish, his covers kicked onto the floor, one knee in John’s back and one arm slung dramatically over his eyes.

 

_Presents_ , Sam insists, shaking John’s shoulders. John struggles to keep his eyes open, still feeling wrung and raw from last night’s emotional turmoil.

 

_The presents won’t go anywhere. We can sleep a few hours more_. John makes a valiant effort to get Sam to sleep, even offering him the meagre space between John’s back and Sherlock’s long limbs.

 

_No!_

 

_Fine, fine, J_ ohn swings his feet over the edge of the bed, shaking Sherlock’s knee. Sam is already waiting by the door with an expression better suited for a sullen, impatient teenager than a toddler.

 

“You’d best be up,” he says, “Father Christmas’s been here.”

 

Sherlock grumbles, but complies, blinking blearily and carding a hand through his hair. It sticks up, tufty and ridiculous, and John thinks with a smirk that this morning sees Sherlock more like a caveman than a Renaissance angel.

 

They put on their morning robes and step into the living room, and yes, there are presents.

 

Sam tears through his, seeming to find most of his joy in destroying the elegant wrapping papers and fancy bows. There’s an illuminated stellar globe from Lestrade and Molly along with a fingerprint kit. John cannot help but think that it might be a kindly jab at Sherlock. It doesn’t quite end there, because, Donovan has packed a crime solving boardgame called _LineUp._ From Mycroft, there’s a book called _Gallery Ghost_ , and when Sam unwraps it he loses interest in the rest of his presents. He sits by the Christmas tree; book in his lap and with great reverence turns the pages, peering at them with the tiny magnifying glass.

 

“Let’s have some tea and breakfast,” John suggests, hoping to coax the odd expression off Sherlock’s face.

 

They share a quick meal of toast and jam and lukewarm chocolate for Sam. Sherlock makes a few preparations for the Christmas dinner while John tidies up the mess of papers and ribbons.

 

An hour or so later they are ready for round two. Sam unwraps art supplies from Mrs. Hudson and from Father Christmas there is a model launch tower and space shuttle. John’s been sensible and bought him new wellies, black with yellow bees on them, as well as an otter plush. Sherlock’s been equally sensible with a pair of green, finely knit gloves and glow-in- the-dark stars to put on Sam’s ceiling. Sam eats his breakfast, wearing new boots and gloves (and only gets a little bit of jam on the otter.)

 

There are presents for the rest of them as well. There’s a jumper from Sherlock, a blue v-neck whose label tells him it’s made of cashmere and silk. Thankfully, the label doesn’t tell him how much it cost. Sherlock tries not to be visibly touched when he unwraps the large green book with a golden bee on the cover from John. “It’s the ABC and XYZ of Bee Culture,” John explains, “Mycroft helped.”

 

John doesn’t mention that the present has lain wrapped and hidden in a box in 221B for the past three years.

 

Sherlock nods and opens the book, flicks through a few pages. The look on his face tells John that he approves. After a while, Sherlock carefully places the book on the table, and he disappears into the kitchen to prepare for the Christmas dinner. John suddenly finds his lap full of Sam and his book. They light the fire, even though it’s the middle of the day, the tree is lit, there is an endless supply of tea and cookies and the whole apartment smells like Christmas dinner.

 

Around noon, there’s a sharp, polite knock on the door, but before John can disentangle himself from his armchair, the door is pushed open.

 

“Good afternoon,” Mycroft says. He’s clad in an immaculate long, black coat, an umbrella hooked in the crook of his elbow. The other arm is…cradling a dog.

 

 

_Doggy!_

 

Sam is beside himself, tripping over his own feet, not sure if he wants to rush over and greet the canine, or find safety behind Sherlock’s legs.

 

Mycroft places the creature on the floor and wipes his hands on a handkerchief.

 

_Good morning, Samuel._

 

It’s a handsome dog, with long golden, curly fur, big brown eyes and shaggy legs, wearing a little burgundy jacket. It sniffs its way across the room, tail wagging a storm. Sam squeals and grabs hold of Sherlock’s pants as the dog trots over to investigate.

 

_His name is Toby_ , Sherlock explains. He kneels and lets the dog investigate his scent, sniff at his hands, lick his fingers. Sherlock combs his fingers across Toby’s head, _he’s a cocker spaniel and very friendly. Come, let’s say hello_.

 

Sam keeps a firm hand on Sherlock’s arm as he allows Toby to sniff him. The dog brushes its head against Sam’s hands, eliciting thrills of giggles from Sam, who hides his face against Sherlock’s leg. Toby, sensing that it’s time to move on trots over to John, staring at him expectantly until John kneels and goes through the greeting ritual. John scratches behind its ear.

 

“What’s this?” He asks, inspecting Toby’s coat. He realises that it’s not really a coat, but more like a harness with silver writing on it.

 

“Toby has been trained to assist people who are hard of hearing or deaf,” Sherlock says.

 

“Oh.” John runs his hand across Toby’s head, the dog licks his fingers and then sets about to investigate the rest of his surroundings, nose firmly pressed to the floor. Sam watches the dog, his expression stuck somewhere between joy and caution, his hand clenching and unclenching against Sherlock’s. The sight pulls at something in John’s chest and leaves him feeling breathless.

 

_Let’s show him where he can find his water and food_ , Sherlock says.

 

The two of them disappear into the kitchen. A few minutes later the sound of kibbles hitting a metal dish draws Toby’s attention and the dog skips happily towards the sound, leaving Mycroft and John alone in the living room.

 

“How long have you been dog-sitting?” John asks because he knows that this is something Sherlock has been planning for a long time.

 

“Two weeks,” Mycroft says smoothly. He surveys the living room like a crocodile breaking the water’s surface to inspect its surroundings. John wonders what he deduces from all the Christmas decorations. Can he tell that they are all Sherlock’s construct? Are some of these items familiar to him? Are they old Holmes heirlooms?

 

Their eyes meet. John doesn’t quite ask.

 

“Thank you for the tickets,” John says, startling Mycroft from his reverie.

 

“Sherlock always pretended to enjoy the prospect of Father Christmas,” Mycroft says smoothly, "I suppose he assumed I derived some satisfaction from thinking he was embracing the Christmas spirit of things."

 

“Well, he’s forwarding your tradition,” John answers, even if he doesn’t know if it’s Mycroft’s tradition of pretending that he doesn’t realize that Sherlock is pretending.

 

“I see,” is all Mycroft says, and for a few minutes nothing more is said.

 

“Do you want a cup of tea?” John asks in the very same minute Mycroft produces a long, white, envelope from the inner pocket of his coat.

 

“Your Christmas present.”

 

John accepts the envelope, half expecting a check with a ridiculous sum of money. What he’s not expecting is the deeds to a house in South Downs.

 

“Is this-“ John’s fairly certain his voice isn’t trembling, but it’s a near thing.

 

“Yes,” Mycroft answers. He trails his eyes away from John, fixes it on the Christmas tree, allowing John to sort through his emotions in peace. John’s grateful for the refuge.

 

This is the location of the first….he doesn’t want to call it safe house, even if that is probably the most appropriate name for it.

 

It’s where he spent his first year in seclusion with Sam, after almost a year in hospital. He remembers the hills like slumbering giants, the stark, white cliffs like a tear in the landscape. The fresh air, and the utter solitude of it all. Not that he’d been lonely, there’d been Mrs. Kettle, the housekeeper and nanny, the Senior Development Management Officer for the South Downs National Park, who he is fairly certain was one of Mycroft’s bodyguards. He can recognize the stance of somebody carrying a concealed firearm. It had been a stumbling path to recovery, but the peace and quiet are the prescriptions he had needed to heal and sort through the mess conflicting feelings.

 

Mycroft had often stopped by, sometimes to bring John news, but mostly to get to know his nephew. One time, John caught him staring down at Sam in his crib like Sam was an oddly shaped piece of evidence he was trying to make sense of. Every time he returned to London, he left behind books to help John or thoughtful presents for Sam. Like the toy dog that Sam’s always dragging around.

 

“You’re giving me a house.”

 

“It’s hardly more than a cottage,” Mycroft says, even if John is fairly certain that most cottages can’t boast acres of property and three bathrooms. “You can use it for holidays and such. There’s a groundskeeper that takes care of things, all paid for."

 

John steps closer, lowering his voice until he’s certain it can’t be heard over the clatter in the kitchen.

 

“Is this your subtle way of suggesting we leave the city for a little while?”

 

A flicker of his eyes is the only answer Mycroft will give.

 

“Do you know something?” John soldiers on.

 

Mycroft clasps his arms at the small of his back and moves smoothly across the floor to stare out the window. John can’t tell if he’s keeping an eye on somebody on the street below, or if he just wants to put some physical distance between them. John isn’t so easily deterred.

 

“Well, do you?” He follows Mycroft’s path until he’s standing at the older Holmes’s shoulder. John catches Mycroft’s reflection in the window, sees him staring blindly at the empty, white street below them.

 

John grabs his arm, hard enough to momentarily shake Mycroft out of his stoic posture. His mouth tilts down a little to the left, but he keeps gaze firmly locked on the street below.

 

“What’s going on? Are we in danger?”

 

“Even if things are developing along a different path,” Mycroft says in an odd voice that’s barely above a whisper, “it is textbook. Give him a puzzle and watch him dance.”

 

He lets go of Mycroft’s arm, eyes narrowing as he studies this stranger who Mycroft’s suddenly become. He looks worried, tension riding along his body, like a loaded spring.

 

“What do you mean, what book? And who’s dancing? Do you-“

 

John summons the last shreds of his restraints. He hates it when they speak in riddles like he’s too stupid to understand that they are actually hiding something from him.

 

“-This is about that “game,” isn’t it? Ollie, ollie, oxen free? Only, it’s not Moriarty playing it, is it? Because he’s very much dead. There’s somebody else and….” John takes a step back and even if Mycroft’s eyes doesn't betray him, the slight notch between his brows does.

 

“…And you don’t know who it is. You’ve no idea.”

 

Mycroft wrinkles his nose, the closest he’ll come to admitting that John is right.

 

“But Sherlock is still playing the game, isn’t he?”

 

“Every game he knows,” Mycroft says. John hears the hidden meaning behind those words: that there is everything to lose.

 

“How about that cup of tea, hm?”

 

John presses his lips to a thin line before he says, “you wouldn’t be subtle about it if you really wanted us to leave.”

 

"No," Mycroft agrees.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Boxing Day is a cold and windy affair that only the bravest of shoppers dare to suffer through. John wakes up twice to the wind rattling against the windows and shaking the house so hard it groans in pain. Sam crawls into their bed around six and a few seconds later Toby presses his wet nose against John’s cheek. John’s too tired to protest and instead coaxes Sam back to sleep tucked between the two of them and an arm around Toby. It leaves John teetering on the edge of the bed, curled up with only the corner of the duvet and without a pillow. It’s still the best sleep he’s had in ages

 

They share a lazy brunch with leftover turkey and sweetcorn sandwiches. Afterward, Sherlock buries himself in The ABC and XYZ, long legs dangling over the edge of the chair. There’s a pleasant fire crackling in the fireplace. Sam sits by Sherlock’s chair, scowling at his puzzles and consulting Toby for advice on how to proceed. John contemplates another attempt at making a dent in the latest John Grisham novel, he’s sure he’s started on it eight times by now.

 

He’s just put the kettle on, when there’s a tentative knock on the door. Toby trots over to the door, sniffing at the crack. He barks and then walks over to John. John turns off the kettle, and with Toby at his heels walks over to unlock and open the door.

 

“Hi, good afternoon,” Mary says. John opens the door wider and Mary pops her head in, looking sheepish, “I’m sorry to trouble you, but-“

 

Toby sniffs at Mary’s feet, ears flickering back and forth, tail wagging restlessly.

 

“Oh, I didn’t know you had a dog,” she peers at the creature,

eyes suddenly calculating.

 

“It’s a…recent development,” John answers, “his name is Toby.” Toby woofs once and then pad back to collapse by the fireplace, resting its heads on its paws. His eyes are on Sam, but John feels like the dog’s keeping him in his peripheral vision.

 

“Charming,” Mary says in a voice that doesn’t sound entirely sincere. “May I come in for a moment?”

 

“Oh, sure,” John steps back to allow her entry and she crosses the threshold with a tight smile. She shuffles in, peering over his shoulder. John follows her gaze, but neither one of the occupants of the living room has moved an inch. Mary looks dressed for an arctic expedition. She’s wearing a thick sweater, a winter coat, hat and a pair of snow boots.

 

“Is something wrong?” John asks.

 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she starts again, “but, I need some help with the radiator and-“ she displays her hand and John sees that it’s wrapped in a support bandage. “I hurt my hand,” Mary explains, “nothing serious,” she hastens to add before John can even form the question, “I just need some help with the radiator.”

 

“Sure,” John says. Mary grants him a slanted smile, “if we need any tools, I’m not sure if we got any….” They have a bone-saw somewhere, John thinks, and probably a hammer and a lock picking kit.

 

“Don’t worry, I got a toolbox upstairs. Leftover from the previous tenants, I think.”

 

“Alright,” John steps into a pair of shoes before calling over his shoulder, “just going upstairs for a bit, I’ll be right back.”

 

There’s a half-wave from Sherlock, who doesn’t even emerge from his book to watch him leave. The only one who seems regretful to watch him go is Toby shuffles back to the door. He paws at John’s shoes and presses his nose hopefully against John’s hand.

 

“You need to stay,” John says, “we’ll go for a walk when I get back.” He pats Toby’s head and carefully closes the door.

 

The hallway is so cold, it’s probably just a few degrees from freezing, but when he steps into Mary’s flat he finds that it is just as cold.

 

“I was working on Christmas Eve and I hurt my hand trying to calm a disgruntled patient. When I got off shift I was too knackered to turn on the heater. Woke up to an ice palace, and now I can’t get the radiator to work.” She wrinkles her nose against the cold. “You needn’t bother taking your shoes off.”

 

John’s breath mists in the cold air, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. The apartment is almost identical to their flat, made smaller by the slanting ceiling. It has a dark, almost sombre feel to it, painted grey with a brown, leather sofa and a dusted yellow armchair. There’s a TV above the fireplace, but no knickknacks on the mantle. The only pictures on the wall are old-fashioned school plaques showing anatomical models. The few books in the bookshelves are of the old fashioned type with leather covers and gilded spines. There’s an ancient looking model of a human eye in ebony, teak, and brass. An old-fashioned periscope and mannequin’s head showing the various places for phrenology treatment.

 

“I’m a bit of a collector of antique medical equipment,” Mary confesses as she spies John’s interest. “My dad started it, and at first I just tagged along when he went thrift shopping, but then, you know, I got addicted.”

 

She brushes past John to the bookshelf, saying, “this is my most prized possession. It’s the first edition of Grey’s Anatomy, published in London in 1858.”

 

“Must have been quite expensive.”

 

“This one’s my favourite,” she says and collects the head. Up close, John sees that smooth, white surface is covered in tiny drawings. Sloped above the head is the image of a sneaking fox accompanied by the words “secretiveness.”

 

“It’s the model of what they thought you could measure an Alpha’s personality, talents, and mental abilities.”

 

John twists the model around, there’s a picture of two boxers fighting in a ring: combativeness, the image of a slim figure and children: procreation, a bear chasing a fawn: destructiveness, and a man that seems to be dancing: competitiveness.

 

“Interesting,” he says politely. He studies it, hates how it suddenly looks familiar somehow, like it’s taking on Sherlock’s features. He quickly hands it back to Mary.

 

“I have the headpiece as well though it´s far too large to display.”

 

John is very eager to move away, though he cannot quite put a finger on the exact reason for feeling like this. “Where’s the radiator?”

 

“Oh, right. It’s in the kitchen, right this way.”

 

He follows Mary into the kitchen and locates the radiator under a kitchen cabinet on the wall opposite of the stove.

 

“The valve isn’t working. You know how it is with these old radiators….” She winks at him, as though they are sharing a great secret.

 

“Sure,” John agrees, not sure what they are agreeing on.

 

He moves a chair out of the way and kneels, wincing when his knee hits the icy floor. He tries to turn the knob, but it won’t budge. “The thermostat might be stuck,” he says. It had been a repetitive problem with his radiator when he lived in Paradise Gardens.

 

“Let me fetch the tools,” Mary says, “just a moment.”

 

John hears her walk across the living room, a door opening and closing, and the faint thread of Mary’s steps on a carpet. He straightens and takes the time to observe his surroundings.

 

The kitchen has the sharp, clean smell that John recognizes from hospitals. It has the same green cabinets and counter tops as 221B, but where the living room had been sparsely decorated, the kitchen looks unused. No cups on the table or plates in the sinks, no tins of tea or bowl of fruits. A large fridge dominates the short end of the room, next to it is a second cabinet that John supposes is a freezer. There is not a single Christmas ornament anywhere in the flat, not as much as a commercial Christmas catalogue. The place feels barren, void of any personal touch. No magazines or newspapers, no posts or photos of family or friends. He doesn’t know why it unsettles him, but he misses the warmth from downstairs.

 

“Here,” Mary calls, interrupting John’s observations. He hears the rattling of metal tools banging around in an old toolbox. “I hope you find the tools you need.”

 

“Thanks.” He accepts the box and starts rummaging around for the appropriate tools. There’s an oddly uncomfortable silence while John works to pry loose the radiator cap. He hears the squeak of her soles against the linoleum floor as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, the scratching of her winter jacket as she folds her arms. He feels her breath, ghosting down the back of his neck.

 

“It’s an easy enough fix,” John says to break the silence, “should have it running in a few minutes.”

 

“Thanks, I’m ever so grateful.”

 

“No problem.”

 

He pries the cap loose and fiddles a bit with the thermostat before he starts reassembling the device. When he’s finished, the radiator gives an appreciative hiss and comes alive.

 

“You’re a lifesaver,” Mary sighs. She brushes past John to warm her hands on the radiator.

 

“Glad to help,” John tosses the tools back into the toolbox and wipes his palms on his trousers, “is that all?”

 

“For now,” Mary winks, “I’ll see you later.”

 

“Yeah, sure. Goodbye.”

 

He hurries downstairs, eager for the warmth of his flat. As he toes out of his shoes, he can’t help but feel like Mary and he hadn’t been sharing the same conversation. John’s usually good at reading people, all omegas are, but Mary is like a blank page. He gets the feeling that she’s trying to be friendly, but also, somehow, trying to show off in the hope that John gets it, yet John can’t understand what he’s suppose to see.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The credit for Christmas tree math goes to the Sheffield University Maths Society: https://www.shef.ac.uk/news/nr/debenhams-christmas-tree-formula-1.227810
> 
> Here you can learn some about the joys of phrenology: http://www.pophaydn.com/phrenology-readings.html
> 
> Hearing Dogs for Deaf People is an amazing thing. Check out their website here: http://www.hearingdogs.org.uk/
> 
> I do not know anything auditory neuropathy or if that is even a fitting diagnosis. I´ve done some "google" research, and you can read more about it here: http://www.nidcd.nih.gov/health/hearing/pages/neuropathy.aspx  
> If you want to share your insight with me, I would be grateful.
> 
> Toby is the name of a dog used by Sherlock Holmes. I learned about him here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minor_Sherlock_Holmes_characters#Toby
> 
> I´ve never been to Harrods, but I used inspiration and pictures from their website, found here: http://www.harrods.com/content/misc/boutiques/the-harrods-christmas-grotto-2015
> 
> All the presents are actual presents I found at various places on google by using phrases like "presents for genius toddlers" and "what to get Sherlock for Christmas."


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and John play detectives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thanks to CowMow for being my beta and an awesome person. 
> 
> Cheers to all of you who take the time to drop me a kudos or a few lines in a comment, it means the world to me.

**Warning for: graphic description of a crime scene, discussion of suicide, in relation to a crime.** Some minute changes have been made to chapter 13 for consistency, but it doesn´t require a reread. Let me know if you find any other consitency errors. 

 

 

**Chapter twenty-one.**

 

New Year’s Eve comes and goes with a cold shower of rain that washes away the snow, cleaning a new slate for London.

 

The news anchor gives his summary of the year in a monotonous drum, perhaps in an attempt to make the audience too bored to pay attention to the statistics. The violent crime rate is up, the unemployment rate is still climbing, the rivulets of the banking scandal are still felt in the fiscal sections and public trust in the police and civil servants are at a record low.

 

The Prime Minister tries to lift the mood with a rousing speech about a brighter future and how the British people always persevere and endure. He elegantly skirts around the Alpha/Omega debate, though several newspapers are quick to point out how he failed to address the major issue in his country.

 

Edward Blithely gives his own address to the nation. He’s put on the stage of a lavish studio, where he sits in an elegant leather chair, looking styled and polished and nothing like the man quivering in the police morgue not two weeks ago.

 

“As I have always said,” Edward Blithely says to the camera, “I do not condone any form of violence. Our cause is just, and with just means we will see it completed.”

 

He drones on for the next fifteen minutes about how Parliament will now be forced to open the debate about their demands, and how people in Alpha relationship can find help to expose their abuser and start a new life. The first of January sees a rekindling of the original campaign with Glen Reese’s sombre face staring at John from billboards and television screens as if is John personally responsible for his fate. The discussion of the death penalty flares up in small, angrily written letters to the editors. Why are the lives of Alphas considered more valuable than the life of the innocent people they destroy?  There are some crimes so severe and perverse that the only fitting punishment is to remove the perpetrator from society. Very few voices speak up in their defense.

 

Mycroft remains silent throughout the holiday and John doesn’t know if it’s a good sign or not. Mrs. Kettle is more ferocious in ensuring that their fridge and cupboards are stocked and even extends her services to include Mrs. Hudson, who warms up to the housekeeper when she realizes that Mrs. Kettle is also a fan of Connie Prince.

 

They venture into the New Year at a leisurely pace of tea and outings and puzzles. Sherlock spends hours training Toby to pick up and follow scents, to various degrees of success, while Sam spends his evenings with his fists in the dog’s fur, cuddling and whispering little secrets.

 

They very specifically don’t mention The Head.

 

Lestrade tries to weed out any information that could tie Moriarty to Edward Blithely, but Ms. Audre Alton, Edward Blithely’s lawyer, puts down as many hurdles as legally possible. Edward Blithely is a victim, she claims, of a sick and twisted individual. Privately, John can’t help but agree.

 

From the thawing, they deduce that package must have been sent that very same morning and that the head came “fresh” from a freezer. Unfortunately, Edward Blithely had announced his intended visit to the Yard on Twitter.

 

“In case you arrested me,” Edward explained later when he was questioned “I wanted my readers to know where I was.” So, any of his thousands of followers could have known that he would be at the Yard.

 

They also questioned the delivery guy who had collected the package at the pickup point. “It´s not unusual to get specific times and dates,” he said, “people want surprise spouses and such on birthdays or wedding anniversaries.” He shrugged, “I thought the recipient at the Yard was celebrating something.”

 

The surveillance cameras across the street from the delivery point were out of commission, leaving them with a distant view of a busy sidewalk and no way to tell if any of the pedestrians are carrying parcels or stopping to deliver them.

 

“How about payment?” Sherlock asked the deliveryman.

“Cash in an envelope on the package. Now that was a bit unusual, but not unheard of.”

 

By time officers arrived at the office, the envelope had been tossed in the bin and the money had already been sorted into the rest of their cash reserve, leaving the evidence they could have found utterly useless.

 

 

On the first Thursday of the new year, Sherlock takes Sam to the National History Museum. He warns that they will be occupied for hours, but maybe John would like to meet up for a late lunch? John readily agrees. It’s the first time Sherlock and Sam are on their own, as alone as you can get with Mycroft’s constant CCTV surveillance and one of his bodyguards skulking around, but it would be good for them to get some quality time together.

 

John waves them off early in the morning; Sam in his raincoat and Wellies while Sherlock tug his collar up against the rain. They disappear into one of Mycroft’s cars, Sam with an expression somewhere between excitement and unease at leaving John behind.

 

He takes the seventeen steps back up to their flat. Toby greats him by the door, ludicrously happy at John’s imminent return. John scratches him behind the ears and stands for a moment, absorbing the quietness of their empty apartment.

 

The last time he was alone in 221 B was a lifetime ago.

 

Before the memories can creep into his chest, he busies himself with tidying up the debris of breakfast. He tosses the old newspapers away and slides Sam’s books into the lowest bookshelf.

 

Twenty minutes later, John sits on the sofa, a cooling cup of tea within his reach, Toby snoozing in his basket by Sherlock’s chair and the table covered in autopsy reports.

 

Yesterday, John had gone out for milk and collected copies of the files from Lestrade. Lestrade had looked so haggard that John was forced to employ his authority as a physician and order him home and to remain home until he had eight hours of sleep and, at least, one decent meal. No caffeine. No cigarettes. No greasy take-away.

 

An hour later he had gotten a text message from an unknown number with a simple: thank you. He saved the number under _Molly_.

 

John stares at the row of white faces on his coffee table.

 

Glen Reese.

Jane Hill.

Simon Whitewell.

Andrew Nash.

Joseph Braithsworth.

Alexander Lee Finkle.

 

All murdered within the past two years.

All victims of this mad game that they thought Moriarty was playing with them.

 

He slides the last picture into the row of dead people, a decapitated head on a slab.

 

“Jacob” Moriarty.

 

There had been some small, measly comfort in knowing the name of the madman behind it all. Even if Moriarty was pulling strings from afar, at least they had known who the puppet master was.

 

Now, they have absolutely no idea.

 

It eats away at Sherlock and it has rattled Mycroft to the extent that he basically told John to pack a bug-out-bag and head to the cottage if things became complicated.

 

John steals a glance at the bookcase, where he’s hidden Mycroft’s envelope in his biography of Churchill. He hasn’t told Sherlock about it yet, but he’s certain the detective knows. There are very few things that John can keep secret from Sherlock Holmes.

 

He spends an hour skimming through the autopsy reports, lingering for a while on Moriarty’s. The report yields tell him nothing useful. The freezing makes it difficult to determine the time of death and it has contaminated potential pollen and saliva swabs. The report concludes that Moriarty was probably dead before he was decapitated.

 

There is nothing to be gleaned from the wrapping paper or the string. They were sold in hundreds of stores all over London. The label had been written on ordinary paper, printed by an ordinary printer. There were no fingerprints, pieces of fibre or as much a loose strand of hair. There was only one thing of interest Albert Thompson notes, namely that the head had been removed in the same manner as Glen Reese: what a small, manual saw. “I can’t tell you much about the weapon,” Thompson writes “but the teeth on the saw are small, serrated and curved. Like you’d find on a metal saw.”

 

And so, his thoughts circle back to the drain, pulling him down with Finkle’s whispered words to them on a platform. A support group with plans for revenge. A marine and a nurse.

 

There are thousands of nurses in London, not even included those who have retired or been discharged. In addition, “nurse” is such a broad definition. There are Agency Nurses, Critical Care Nurse, Forensic Nurse, Legal Nursing, Midwife, Paediatric Nurse, Psychiatric Nurse. It makes the number of potential suspects staggering. If only Lee Finkle had given them some information to help eliminate potential subjects. Young, old? Retired? Still in school? Was this nurse a man or a woman? Foreigner? What about his or her accent?

 

By the time John decides to quench his thoughts with a sip of tea, his drink is cold and stale. With a grimace, he slides the cup out of reach and collapses against the sofa. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe he’s foolish for thinking he could see something in a bundle of papers and pictures that Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade and the rest of the Scotland Yard missed.

 

He scrubs a hand across his face and blinks the room back into focus. He stares down at the pictures. Andrew Nash and Joseph Braithworth. They were the only one without any ties to John and Sherlock.

 

And yet, somebody in the support group had chosen them to be executed for their crimes and strung them up along with Simon Whitewell. John searchers through the pile of paper until he finds Edward’s list. Joseph Braithworth had a long list of enemies, disgruntled employees and victims of the asbestos scandal. Andrew Nash’s crime is being responsible for his wife’s death, but Lestrade was confident that her death was a suicide and Sherlock had not shown any interest in pursuing that line of inquiry.

 

He dials Molly’s number and listens to the clicks and churns of the phone. She picks up on the tenth ring and John wonders if she was busy or summoning up the courage to answer.

 

“Hi,” she breathes into the phone.

 

“Hello, Molly.” John wanders over to the window and pulls the curtains aside to inspect the weather. The sky is a rare blue, seldom seen in London until May and the streets are almost bare. He’ll take the Tube halfway, he thinks, and walk the last few streets, the fresh air might clear his head.

 

“John?”

 

“Yes, sorry,” he says, pulling away from the view. “I’m wondering if you could do me a favour?”

 

He hears the sound of something toppling over, feet shuffling against the floor, the sound of a chair being pulled back. Is she thinking about the last time somebody asked her a favour?

 

“What do you need?”

 

“It’s about the Case,” John says, “with capital C. I’m looking for the death inquiry of Isidora Nash, Andrew Nash’s wife. She committed suicide, ten years ago or so.”

 

“Oh.”

 

There’s a brief pause filled with the sound of fingers running over a keyboard. “Let me call you back in fifteen,” Molly says.

 

“Sure.” John hangs up and spends the next quarter of an hour making a fresh cup of tea. Fifteen minutes later, on the dot, his phone starts to buzz.

 

“Hello, John,” Molly says. “I’ve been snooping around on that name you gave me. It’s going to take an hour or so to get it all printed and sorted. I’ll see if I can hunt down the old police reports as well.”

 

“Thanks, I’ll drop by and-“

 

“Why don’t I meet you in Paradise Gardens?”

 

John swallows around the words in his throat until he can finally squeeze them free.“What?”

 

“It’s the original crime scene,” Molly says, “it’s been almost ten years, but maybe it’s worth checking out? Get a feel for the scene? That’s something you do, right? Honestly, I could do with an excuse to get out of this lab.” There’s a nervous chuckle attached to the end of her sentence as if Molly’s unsure of how welcomed her presence would be.

 

“That’s not….” That’s not possible, John wants to point out, “Did Andrew Nash live in the same flat as where his wife was killed?”

 

“Oh, no. He moved to the flat next door, but the old flat is currently empty and I know somebody in the Housing Sector who can lend us the keys….” There’s an unexpected eagerness in her voice. Is Molly feeling guilty and is that why she’s gone above and beyond to help John?

 

“Sure,” John says faintly, his head swimming.

Paradise Gardens. It had to be a coincidence. “Meet you there in an hour?”

 

“Great!” Molly chirps.

 

 

Paradise Gardens looks like it has been lost to time, the rest of London moved on, Paradise Gardens lumbered behind, too heavy and cumbersome to move. Precast concrete slabs are piled together to form rows of 213 small, identical flats. The gardens are muddy; bits of trash, cigarettes and empty cans and rubbish float in puddles of meltwater. A discarded Christmas tree has been flung out from a window, still with all its lights and decorations, leaving a circle of shattered plastic and drizzles of tinsel.

 

A couple of children are poking at something floating in a puddle, while their mothers huddles under the awning, warming their hands on cigarettes. They stare at John, with dark, watchful eyes and twisted lips. They don’t like strangers here.

 

The sight and misery of the place take him down the abysmal path of memory lane of his first few weeks home from Afghanistan when he had drifted aimlessly around London, when Paradise Gardens had been his home.

 

“Something wrong, John?”

 

John shakes himself free of his memories and stuffs his hands in the pocket of his coat.

 

Molly’s stands beside him with a cautious smile. It strikes John that he hasn’t seen her since Sherlock’s funeral. She’d had the same careful expression then, the same calculating gaze gauging John’s expression.

 

“I’m fine” He tilts his head in an aborted nod. “It’s nice to see you, how have you been?”

 

“Fine,” she echoes, with a real smile this time.

 

She looks good, John thinks, dressed in a deep blue coat that matches her eyes with a splash of burn orange around her neck. Her hair is cut short, just above her shoulder and it makes her seem more confident somehow, less like the dainty pathologist stumbling after Sherlock.

 

“Which one is it?”

 

Molly flicks through her notes on her mobile phone, then studies her surroundings before pointing at the block with the military green doors. “Um…apartment 309,” she says and she glances around, trying to locate the right path.

 

John’s heart skips a beat.

That had to be another coincidence.

 

“Let’s go,” John says, “it’s this way.”

 

He leads the way across the courtyard, past the suspicious gaze of the women.

 

The lift isn’t working, it hasn’t since John used to live here, and so they dredge themselves up the stairs. Wrapping paper and empty beer cans litter the steps. John tries to ignore the sounds echoing down the corridor, the screeching of a television, a bawling baby, a couple shouting at each other, the sound of his own heart beating against his ribs.

 

They stop outside 309. The door’s been replaced since John lived here, a slightly larger model that fits the frame better and doesn’t let in the mustard coloured light from the corridor.

 

“What did you tell Lestrade we were doing?”

 

“Nothing. Greg’s taking the day off and I didn’t want to disturb him. This is from Ginnie in Public Housing, she owns me a favour after one too many cocktails.”

 

“Right,” John tries not to feel guilty about his own impromptu expedition to a crime scene without Sherlock. Sherlock would see and deduce everything, not only about the crime scene but also about John and his ties to this place. He can’t really explain why he doesn’t want Sherlock to have this glimpse into his unpleasant memories associated with Paradise Gardens. Perhaps, a small, nasty, voice tells him, it’s because Sherlock is hiding his own bleak past.

 

Molly fishes a set of keys out from her purse and sets them into the lock. The door slides open, cutting a bleak path of light into the dark corridor in front of them.

 

They step inside the musty apartment and John tries hard not to let himself step back in time.

 

A short, straight path leads straight on to the living room with one large window. On the left is the small kitchenette with just the barest of necessities, on the right is the bedroom with a tiny en suite bathroom. The carpet isn’t the only thing that has been changed. There are new curtains, pale blue against the fresh white paint on the walls. Along the left side of the room is a green sofa, on the opposite side a shelving system meant to hold one of those deep, old-fashioned televisions. There is an empty bookshelf, a desk with a single chair and a rickety kitchen table with mismatched chairs in the kitchen. The place is vacant, waiting for another lost soul to fill it.

 

“So…,” Molly says into the loaded silence, prompting John to break it.

 

“Do you have the files?” John asks.

 

“Oh, right!” She digs into her shoulder bag and produces a vanilla folder that she offers to John; “here’s a copy for you. I got the police investigation along with the coroner’s files, figured it was best to have everything.”

 

John flips the file open and stares at the pale, bruised face of Isidora Nash. She looks much older than her twenty-something should allow. Thin strands of dark hair streaked with grey surrounds a gaunt face with heavy-lidded eyes. There’s a large gash on her forehead, faint bruising around the wound.

 

He scans the pathologists report and studies the pictures attached to it. Isidora is suspended by the neck with a coil of cable that’s been attached to the window. The woman lies curled forward, the cable pulled taunt, dark bruises colour her neck.

 

“That’s a very….unusual way for a woman to commit suicide,” John murmurs. He’s only seen similar set up in prison cells where there were no available hooks in the ceilings. He wonders why Lestrade didn’t think it odd when he looked into the case? John would have seen it immediately.

 

“I know,” Molly says, “the pathologist commented on it as well. Drug overdose is far more common amongst women and there were plenty available to her in the apartment.”

 

“Prescription?”

 

“Yes. Painkillers and Mrs. Nash was prescribed,…” she flips through the files, “stesolid for her anxiety.”  

 

“The same drug used to incapacitate Nash, Blithely, and Whitewell,” John murmurs.

 

Molly wrinkles her nose, and comments, “it’s a fairly common prescription.”

 

“Who was the prescribing physician?” John asks, half expecting Fenway’s name to crop up.

 

He’s not disappointed.

 

“She started seeing doctor Fenway two years before she died,” Molly’s voice grows agitated, there’s a rustling of papers. ” There was only a trace amount of the drugs in her systems, enough to match her recommended daily dosage, not enough to be lethal. ”

 

“But enough to make her docile,” John says.

 

Molly nods.

 

John returns his attention to the files, flipping through them until he finds the close up of Isidora’s body. There are ligature marks on her neck that matches the strangulation patterns of the cables suspended around her neck. There’s nothing to indicate that the cause of death wasn’t strangulation by hanging.

 

“Using a cable like that when there are so many…other….”John tries not to let his imagination finish the sentence. She could have jumped from the top of the building, gone off the edge of a bridge, drugs, poison. This method was….crude and cruel.

 

“How did the coroner explain the cut on her forehead?”

 

“He thinks she might have fallen the first time she tried it,” Molly says, “there’s bruising around the wound, so she was definitely alive for some time after she hit her head.”

 

 _Hesitation marks,_ a voice says. It sounds strangely like his own.

 

“This set up is highly suspicious,” John says, “why was this ruled a suicide?”

 

“ The last page,” Molly says, “it was one of those closed rooms mysteries you only ever read about. The place was trashed and both keys to the apartment were found -under- a bunch of magazines and books and photographs. That’s where they found the blood and vomit as well.”

 

John remembers the stain on his carpet and feels his stomach churn in an unpleasant way. He stares down at his feet, but the stain is gone, the carpet replaced with one in faded grey colours.

 

“Both keys?” John asks, “why did Mr. Nash leave for work without his house key?”

 

“Because his wife was always at home? The only other key available was the master key in the hands of the janitor, but those keys aren’t kept on the premises. You have to go to the Council main office and log them out.”

 

“I don’t suppose anybody could have made a copy of it?”

 

“It’s possible,” Molly concedes, “But I guess with all the obvious evidence, the police was satisfied to rule it as suicide.”

  

Probably the reason Lestrade didn’t find it suspicious. He flips back until he finds the crime scene photos.

 

Molly’s description is an understatement, the place was wrecked. Books have been torn down from the shelves, pictures slanting on the wall, television smashed and the sofa cushion shredded. The floor was littered with books, magazines, pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and chess pieces. The cables Mrs. Nash used as her noose seemed to have come from the expensive stereo that lies in broken pieces on the floor. There’s broken ceramic and glass treaded into the carpet. The old-fashioned cassette message machine sits on the floor, somehow managing to escape the havoc.

 

“Was the living room the only room trashed?”

 

“Oh….yeah. Now that you mention it, that is a bit strange. You’d think that if somebody had….a breakdown, they’d not limit themselves to one room.”      

 

“And the neighbours heard nothing?”

 

“They heard plenty, but they were used to it.”

 

It’s a common sound in these corridors, John thinks. He remembers lying awake and listening to the cacophony of human misery.

 

“Even ten years ago, this answering machine would have seemed old-fashioned,” John says.

 

Molly offers him almost apologetic smile “My father still insist on using a fax machine. I guess some people prefer old technology?”

 

“The husband doesn’t have a solid alibi,” John notes, “and the neighbours says that the couple was known to argue. Frequently and loudly.”

 

“Andrew Nash says that he tried to call his wife multiple times, but he only got the answering machine,” Molly reads, “I suppose the police figures that he wouldn’t have bothered to call his wife if he knew she was dead.”

 

“That logic works both ways,” John points out, “he could have called her just to have an alibi.”

 

“The room was locked from the inside,” Molly repeats.

 

“Her family seems convinced that her husband is guilty,” John says after reading a few of the witnesses statements, “that she wasn’t one to commit suicide, that’d it go against her Catholic faith.”

 

“But Fenway diagnosed her with depression and anxiety,” Molly says, “and, the room was locked. From the inside. Both keys found under all a magazine. The police had to break the door down to get inside.”

 

John thinks that it’s the kind of case Sherlock would have loved. The dubious method of execution. A history of domestic violence and a husband with a shaky alibi. What was Sherlock doing ten years ago that he wasn’t all over this case?

 

Suddenly, he doesn’t want to know the answer.

 

John shakes the images away. “Was the husband the one to call the police?”

 

“No,” Molly says, “it was a younger neighbour, Albert Crawford. He was only eighteen at the time, said that he used to fetch groceries for Mrs. Nash and was worried when she didn’t answer the door at their appointed time. Mr. Nash was at work, even if nobody can clearly remember seeing him. I guess a newspaper vendor is one of those….invisible guys you don’t remember passing.”

 

“Hmmm.”

 

A soft chime from his phone distracts him from his next train of thoughts. He opens his phone and finds a picture of Sam, a finger hooked into his bottom lip as he stares in wide-eyed wonder at a dinosaur skeleton. His expression prompts a polite cough from Molly.

 

“He’s cute,” Molly says, staring at the picture. John jams his hands into his pockets.

 

“If you want to meet him, you should join us for late lunch,” he offers. It’s casual enough, though from the bright gleam in Molly’s eyes you’d think she’d just been offered to meet the Queen.

 

“I’d love to!”

 

They decide there’s nothing more to be gleaned from the flat, so they leave, locking the door behind them and walk straight a tall, large frame blocking the corridor.

 

“Pardon me,” Molly says, pulling away and rubbing her shoulder.

 

The guy takes a step back, to get a better view of studying them, affording John the same opportunity.

 

The man is tall and broad shouldered, with a buzz cut and a crooked nose after too many scuffles in a bar. He’s clad in faux military fatigues and a green t-shirt, but his stance tells John that he’s not unfamiliar with the official uniform. And there, on his arm, is a black tattoo, an R and an M next to a globe wrapped a laurel wreath, a lion and a crown above it. John knows the words, even if he can’t read them. _Gibraltar, per mare per terram_. By sea, by land.

 

“Who are you?” He reeks of cigarettes and cheap alcohol and his growl is like the rattling end of a snake’s tail. A man itching for a fight. “Why are you poking around in there?” He nods at 309.

 

John takes a step forward until he’s got Molly safely behind his back.

 

“We’re from the Council,” he lies smoothly, “making sure the flat is ready for the next occupant.”

 

“That so,” the man grumbles, “show us some I.D then?”

 

John isn’t prepared for the guy to pull his authority into question, and so he fumbles for a while until he finds one of his old business cards in his wallet. The guy snatches it from John’s hands, curling it into his fist as he studies it and then glares at Molly.

 

“Since when do they send doctors to do housing inspections?”

 

“The new occupant has a medical disability, ” John says, “so we needed to be certain the flat was up to standards.”

 

The guy seems to consider the likelihood of this. John wishes he had Sherlock’s knack for lying, the detective can make the wildest tale sound convincing. Molly wraps her hands tightly around the strap of her shoulder bag. John knows she’s preparing to use it as a weapon, not to find any comfort in it. But the marine keeps his eyes on John, mistakenly dismissing Molly as a none threat.

 

“Paradise Gardens has been neglected for so long,” John adds, “The Council felt it was time to give it and its residence the attention and service it deserves.”

 

This seems to alleviate the guy’s suspicion. He offers the card back to John, who declines with a polite shake of his head. The guy stuffs the card into his pocket and his shoulders slump somewhat.

 

“Name’s Crawford,” he says, “I live in 307.”

He narrows his eyes again. “If you’re so keen on giving us a decent service for once, why don’t you fix my radiator?”

 

“I’m not-“

 

“Or do you think you’re too important to get your hands dirty helping me out, huh?”

 

John presses his lips to a thin line. He’s not one to let his own words be used against him.

 

“Sure,” he says, “I could take a look.”

 

Crawford gives him a grin that’s all a row of yellow and black teeth. He gestures them to the next-door flat. John follows, poised and cautious. Molly close at his heels, hands still around the strap.

 

Apartment 307 is a tomb of stale air, thick with dust and mites. A television flickers between a soccer match and a soap opera. The coffee table is brimming with Styrofoam boxes, empty bottles and cans of cheap beer. There are a few pictures on the walls, of marine vessels, a group of soldiers posing with their weapons, Crawford in the middle. There are flies buzzing in the kitchen and John’s glad he’s not afforded a view of it.

 

“Which radiator?”

 

“Bedroom,” Crawford says gruffly. He throws himself down into the welcoming arms of his sofa. “Tools in the closet,” he adds before John can ask. John waits for half a beat more, but when Crawford cracks open a can of beer and picks up the remote, he decides to just get on with it.

 

Molly follows him, casting suspicious glances at Crawford.

 

“Shouldn’t we just leave?” she whispers.

 

“It’ll be a quick fix,” John murmurs back, “there’s a trick to these radiators.”

 

The bedroom reeks of sweat and some indistinct body odour that makes his nose sting. The bed’s unmade and the floor is littered with clothes and magazines. John yanks the curtains away, letting in harsh light and seeing thousands of specks dancing in the rays, it illuminates the bedroom, casting a dim light on the picture of a woman on the bedside table.

 

The radiator is under the window and he’s already fetched the right tools when he recognizes the look of comprehension on Molly’s face. He busies himself with unfastening the cap on the radiator dial, hiding his own expression.

 

“You’ve lived here,” Molly says, “I wondered why you knew where the apartment was, but I figured you’d just… scouted the place out while you waited.”

 

John frees the plastic cap and fiddles with the thermostat. “Yes,” he says. “Not many places you can afford on an army pension.”

 

He can almost feel the heat from Molly’s embarrassment. She shuffles her feet against the carpet and he can almost hear the sound of her churning thoughts rattling around in her mind.

 

“In flat 309,” John adds.

 

He replaces the cap, rattles the knobs until the radiator gives a small hiss and warmth pools against his hands. He packs away the tools and straightens. His eyes fall on the picture; the woman looks younger, somehow, without the bruise on her forehead.

 

“Let’s go,” he whispers to Molly.

 

“All done,” he tells Crawford whom looks up from the television long enough to give John and Molly the dismissive nod that serves as his gratitude.

 

The courtyard is empty, and John tugs his collars up against the chilly wind. John inspects his watch, typing out a message to Sherlock that he’ll be slightly late for their lunch and that Molly will be joining them. They’ve put the gray shadow of Paradise Gardens behind them before Molly finally voices her thoughts.

 

“It’s a coincidence, right? That you lived in the same flat as Isidora Nash committed suicide.”

 

“Has to be,” John says, “Besides, this happened long before I moved in.”

 

“It’s odd, though,” Molly muses.

 

She falls into pace with him as they move towards the nearest tube station.

 

“There’s a lot of odd things about this case.”

“I’ve been reading about the case… I heard about Moriarty’s head,” Molly lowers her voice as a couple of teenagers stagger by them. “What does Sherlock make of it?”

 

“Not much,” John admits. “If the victims, I mean Nash and Braithsworth, were chosen because they were important….because it was important they were punished, then somebody had to /know/ that Isidora’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

 

“Well, her killer would know,” Molly says, “but if her killer was the one punished, then it must have been Andrew Nash. Maybe he….got drunk and let it slip in a bar or something?”

 

“It’s not impossible.” John braces his shoulders against a chilly gust of wind that threatens to knock them over. “But the set up doesn’t strike me as something Nash would be capable of. And to keep it secret for ten years and then suddenly let it slip…now of all times….just doesn’t seem likely.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Nash was an uneducated man who dropped out of college to work as a newspaper vendor. He’s got several convictions for sexual assault, was known to have a temper. They lived on social welfare in public housing. Besides, he’s an Alpha, statistically he’s far more likely to have beaten her to death in a fit of rage. I can imagine him killing her by accident, but he’s an Alpha. Ten years ago, he’d probably been given mandatory counselling and probably served a few years in a low security facility. He could have killed her a dumped her body somewhere and….”

 

“The husband is always the first suspect,” Molly murmurs, “besides if his wife had a life insurance with a suicide clause, or a will with him as the primary recipient, he wouldn’t have seen a pence as long as he was under suspicion.”

 

“Right,” John agrees, “this set up tells us that Nash really didn’t want to get suspected, but how did he get the means to stage an elaborate suicide where the keys are found inside a locked room?”

 

“Maybe he asked for help?” Molly says, thinking aloud now, “maybe he met a stranger on a train and asked for help in faking his wife’s death? It doesn’t only happen in Hitchcock movies, you know.”

 

John stops so suddenly Molly almost crashes right into him.

 

He thinks of two twin sisters, mirror images of each other. One slumped over the edge of a bathtub, a razor clutched in her hand. The door taped shut from the inside.

 

 _Definitely not suicide_ , Sherlock’s voice whispers in his mind.

 

_Dear consulting criminal, help me get rid of my depressing wife and give me access to her money._

 

“What is it, John?” He feels Molly’s hand squeeze his arm and shakes himself free of the voices.

 

“I was just remembering a similar case from a few years ago. Locked room. Faked suicide. The perpetrator got advice from an Internet page, the Science of Crime, a consultant criminal. It was one of the first…clues, I guess, from Moriarty.”

 

“You think he was operating that webpage ten years ago?”

 

“Unless Andrew Nash ran into him at Fenway’s office,” John murmurs, “I’m guessing that detail doesn’t really matter. What matters is, well, first we have to prove that was a murder. If Nash didn’t confess to somebody, and if we assume that nobody deduced, then who told…whoever chose Nash to be punished for the crime of murdering his wife?”

 

“So,” Molly says as they reach the Tube station. They stop for a moment, tucked into a corner against the cold wind, fishing out their Oyster cards. “Say we prove it wasn’t a suicide, that’ll leave us with a long list of people who wanted revenge.”

 

“All of her family members have solid alibis for the execution,” John says. He lets a woman struggling with a stroller pass by first before he presses his card against the yellow pad and enters the subway station.

 

“We’d have to find somebody else who had the motive to avenge her murder,” Molly murmurs.

 

They make their way to a subway car, shuffled into a corner, pressed together by the late lunch crowd heading into the city.

 

“He was a marine,” John says at last.

 

“What?”

 

“Crawford!” John twists away from the elbow of the stranger digging into his side. “The guy in the corridor with the broken radiator, he had a tattoo on his arm of the Royal Navy slogan.”

 

“Oh,” Molly says. She furrows her brows, looks a little lost, but masks it with a polite smile. John realizes that Lestrade might not have kept her updated on the case, and so he spends the next twenty minutes of their subway ride giving her the cliff notes version of the case. By the time they’ve made their way to South Kensington Station, Molly’s expression has through the entire range of emotions before she settles on a thoughtful frown.

 

“So, let’s say you can prove it was a murder, why do you think it’ll prove Crawford is the “marine?”

 

John squints against the sunlight, trailing his gaze amongst the crowd before his gaze settles on the two familiar figures that make warmth blossom in his stomach.

 

“Because,” John murmurs, “Crawford had a picture of Isidora on his bedside table.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, sorry for the long wait. Between parent-teacher conferences, a holiday in Japan and a bit of a writer's block, this chapter just wouldn't come together. Thankfully, CowMow's been my crutch and the following chapter should not be too far behind.
> 
> Cheers to all of you who support me and stick with this story.

**Chapter twenty-two.**

 

They find a small restaurant at the end of Museum Street. It's the lull between lunch and dinner. There are some exhausted tourists camping by the bar surrounded by shopping bags, nursing pints. At the front, three women enjoy a cup of coffee, each with a child seated on their laps.

The waiter guides them to a secluded table by the large windows, giving them a view of the busy street. 

Sam has kept his eyes on Molly ever since she interrupted his enthusiastic reunion with John, which was only slightly dampened by the absence of Toby. _(‘Dogs don´t like museums, Sammy.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because there´s a lot of people, and it is crowded and noisy.’ ‘Dogs like to chase balls.’ ‘Yes, they do.’ ‘And they like to sleep and eat.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘They like to chew on bones.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘There are lots of bones at the museum.’)_

He watches her every move with thinly veiled suspicion, as though he’s not sure what to make of yet another addition to his social circle. John recognizes his apprehension and feels responsible. A few weeks ago it had just been him, John, Mycroft and Mrs. Kettle. Now there are all kinds of people coming and going.  It's another sharp reminder that they need to start looking for preschools or a private nursery to give Sam the chance to practice making friends his own age.

Molly unwinds her scarf with a with quick, agitated movements, and settles down on the chair furthest from the rest of them. She fiddles with her phone and John tries not to linger too long at the realization that this is awkward. He’s shared cups of tea with Molly while waiting for Sherlock who was busy conducting an experiment, but they’ve never grabbed a bite to eat or shared a pint. He doesn't even know that much about her private life. He never presumed that they were friends. 

Sherlock, obviously, did, as he had included Molly into his scheme. He understood, in a practical sense, that Sherlock's plan required the assistant of a medical examiner. Molly must have helped Sherlock produce the fake body, she must have tampered with the autopsy report. And then, she went to the funeral, watched John grieve and did nothing, said nothing. 

The thoughts are like a match to an anger he didn’t know he still carried. It takes him several, agonizing moments to quench the fire and dredge up a smile. Why did he think this was a good idea? His thoughts are thankfully interrupted by the appearance of a waiter who carries a booster seat and a stack of menus. 

“Anything I can get for you?” the waiter asks, clicking his pen and looking at each of them in turn. For a while, nobody answers, leaving John to break the awkward silence. “A pot of tea, and some still water, please.”

“Very well,” the waiter says with a smile as he places the menus on the table before he returns to the kitchen. Molly hangs her purse on the back of her chair and hides her face behind one of the menus. 

Sherlock tugs Sam’s hat off his head, frees him of his scarf, gloves, and coat. He secures Sam into the chair and then, almost as an afterthought, hands him his mobile phone to play with. They settle around the table with their menus and when the waiter returns with their drinks, John orders for himself and Sam. Molly picks a salad at random.Sherlock tells the startled waiter to just “bring me something warm.”

Sam’s attention is firmly locked on Sherlock’s phone, occasionally turning the device around in his hands. Sherlock’s gaze sweeps the room, no doubt dissecting the various habits and secrets of the late lunch goers, leaving John the sole occupant of Molly’s attention.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Molly says. 

 The truth is hardly a suitable answer, so John agrees and manages to lead her into a conversation about the weather and the new medical examiner’s location. He skirts around conversational pitfalls, such as the latest political trends, anything related to the case or their estrangement for the past three years.  

The waiter reappears with their food, looking rather nervous as he places a steak and ale pie in front of Sherlock. He gives John his fish and chips and then places both the salad and Sam’s food in front of Molly. 

Molly goes pale and huffs a nervous laugh “sorry, I’m not his mother.”

The waiter arches a brow, before his gaze slides slowly from John to Sherlock, as the detective slides Sam’s plate across the table towards himself.

“My apologies,” the waiter says without noticeable emotion.

Sherlock’s hands clenched and unclench on the table until John places his hand over his, anchoring his irritation. There is a pregnant pause before Sherlock’s hands slip free of John’s to cut Sam’s food into manageable chunks. He places the plate in front of Sam, who is happy to substitute the phone for a fork.

“So, anyway…” Molly says, clearing her throat as she searches for another safe topic. “Did you hear about Parliament discussing a temporary tightening of the Public Order Act in an attempt...“ 

The rest of her sentence is drowned out in the large clatter and shatter of glass and crockery.

John tries not to cringe as Sam seizes the attention of the entire restaurant by pushing his plate and everything on it, onto the floor. Molly freezes, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Sam stares at them, startled by their expressions. He starts to whimper, his eyes trying to dam his tears, but half a second later he’s crying. His outburst sets off a chain reaction in another child in the restaurant, who echoes Sam’s cries with her own screams. 

It’s been a while since John’s been on the receiving end of a proper temper tantrum. Sam’s embracing every aspect of it like a champ. He howls. He shakes his fists, pushes away Sherlock's hands and kicks against the table with such force that it threatens to knock his chair over. Only Sherlock’s cat-like reflexes stops it from tumbling backwards.

John’s already forming a strategy of how to calm Sam down, when Sherlock rises, picks Sam up from the chair. He walks through the restaurant to the privacy afforded downstairs by the restrooms. Sam’s cries peter out, but the other child is still going at it in full force. A red-faced woman stomps past John, a small, angry girl clutching her shoulders.

“Well…” This time it’s John’s turn to fumble for his words.  He hadn’t expected Sherlock’s instinctual reactions. Sherlock stepped into the role of parenthood without any reservations or questions, as if it was the most obvious transition into a life John had never managed to imagine for him. Suddenly, he feels guilty for expecting less of Sherlock, for all these doubts he’d harboured at child and parent meeting for the first time. 

“I suppose it’s a reason they call it the terrible twos,” Molly mumbles. 

They busy themselves with their meals and a stilted conversation, again about the weather.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock and Sam return. The former is calm; the latter is red-faced with puffy eyes and his collar wet from tears and snot while his face has been cleaned. He extends his arms as soon as he sees John, curling up in his arms and clinging to him for dear life.

“Peas,” Sherlock explains, sitting back in his own chair. 

Molly blinks at him. 

“He’s not keen on green vegetables,” Sherlock adds, cutting into his pie as if what he had said is the most normal thing in the world.

  
After lunch, they bid farewell to Molly and enjoy a leisurely pace down the streets towards Euston Square. Sam tucks his hand into John’s and insists on testing the waterproof resistance of his wellies in every single puddle they pass. John is very happy and relieved that all traces of the tantrum have gone.

By the time they reach the tube station, it’s late afternoon and the commuter crowd is peaking. Exhausted office workers, tired moms with their children and kids in their school uniforms move in a slow throng down the stairs to the platform. Sam presses himself close to John, both arms wrapped around his neck. His gaze is locked on Sherlock who is walking behind them, a solid, looming presence. John wonders if Sherlock is aware of this protective instinct that has become his second nature. Sherlock is, by his own definition, the most observant man in the world, but he can be dreadfully ignorant of himself. 

They bundle into the train car and are lucky to find a student eager to give up her seat for Sam and John. Sam presses his face against the glass, staring at the flickering display of alternating light and dark. Sherlock stands with one arm looped around the handrail, tapping away on his phone .

John tries not to pay attention to the conversation filtering through the drone of the subway. There’s a gaggle of girls discussing the merits of the main lead in a new superhero movie, a mother and son tersely arguing about his recent attitude and a group of businessmen discussing their boss’s newest secretary. The couple next to him, however, is talking about Edward Blithley, and John can't help listen in.

“I think his whole movement is losing steam,” the tallest woman says. “Unless he does something… radical to grab people’s attention, his campaign is just going to dwindle away into nothing.”

"No way," her friend argues, a short woman with a head full of red corkscrews. “After he’s finally got enough signatures to force the House to discuss reforms, to discuss the return of capital punishment, he’s not going to give up. I bet he's just biding his time."

“Biding his time?” The other woman laughs, “you make him sound like he’s some master villain. Honestly, I think he’s just enjoying the attention, you know, until, ” she lowers her voice, “I heard somebody sent him a decapitated head.”

If she’s expecting shock and awe from her friend, she is disappointed. The redhead snorts dismissingly, “I heard that the dead guy was an Alpha and that somebody was just showing him how far they are willing to go.”

The blonde looks suddenly uncomfortable. She twists her hands into the straps of her purse and searches for her words for a while before she finds them, “well, that’s going too far, isn’t it? Blithely has always distanced himself from the violence. He keeps saying he doesn’t want people to get hurt, he just wants a change.”

“With all the fuel he’s throwing on the proverbial fire, he can’t claim to have peaceful intentions, can he?” The redhead responds, “he has to say he’s not happy with the way people are attacking and killing Alphas. Personally, I’d thank whoever strung up those three bastards in the primary school. It's far less than what they truly deserved.”

The blonde pulls back, her eyes almost comically large. “That’s a dreadful thing to say!”

The discussion has grabbed the attention of the other inhabitants of the carriage. John sees several people nodding along with the redhead’s words. A young woman is holding up her phone, filming the conversation.

“An alcoholic cannot help his urges, a drug addict can’t help his desperate craving for drugs. We just call it an illness, a sickness, and then we go about spending thousands of pounds on trying to cure them, never mind the destroyed lives they leave in their wake. You choose to start drinking, you can’t choose to be an Alpha. Shouldn't we afford them the same....I dunno, courtesy?”

“I think we ought to do the same to them. Not being able to control their desire to drink or do drugs, it’s a lot of hogwash,” yhe redhead responds. “I refuse to believe that Alphas cannot “control their urges.” That’s utter rubbish, I’ve been plenty mad at people, or lost my temper, but I don’t attack them. If they can’t control themselves, if they are just mindless animals that behave on instincts, then they have no place in civilized society. They should be locked up so the rest of us can be safe. We do the same with alcoholics and drug addicts that can't control themselves, don't we? Everybody agrees that's acceptable and the way I see it, people are finally starting to think that's the same way about Alphas." The redhead cants her head and continues. “When Alphas attack and molest children, the only thing the police will do is shake their heads and say “oh, well, Alphas will be Alphas. We can’t punish them for what’s in their nature. That's the dreadful thing!”

The blonde woman’s reply is lost a hail of applause, cheerful hoots and the screeching of the train as it pulls to a halt at the station. John collects Sam and tucks him securely against his side as they navigate the crowd of commuters and make their way through the tube station. He sneaks a glance a Sherlock, wondering what he made of the conversation. But, his expression is guarded, all blank walls and sombre silence. 

 

Back in 221B, they collect an enthusiastic Toby from Mrs. Hudson. The dog bounds around their feet, his tail wagging up a storm with an expression of one who thinks they’ve been gone for ages. Sam wriggles free of John’s hand and Toby greets him by licking his fingers, making the child squeal in joy.

“Thanks for watching him,” John says to Mrs Hudson.

“It was no trouble,” Mrs. Hudson answers, “we had a nice, little, stroll in the park and everything, didn’t we?”

Toby’s tail goes a mile a minute and he snuffles at Mrs. Hudson’s hands, obviously seeking a treat. 

“I’ll be happy to watch him anytime,” Mrs. Hudson smiles, petting the dog’s head.

Toby and Sam hurry upstairs as quickly as their short legs can carry them. Inside, Sam stops only long enough to pull off his wellies and stuff his coat, scarf, and knitted jacket into John’s hands before hurrying towards his room. John puts his clothes away. He’s just shrugged out of his own jacket when a large, warm, frame has him corralled against the wall. John’s brain short-circuits and it takes it a while to reboot and register that he’s being kissed within an inch of his life. 

Sherlock presses himself against John, licking into his mouth, teasing his palate and John scrambles to grab hold of the wall behind to keep himself upright, until he realizes the far superior plan of sliding them up Sherlock’s arms, curling them around his hard, square shoulders, and allows himself a few seconds to marvel at how well they fit together. Mine, he thinks, curling his hands possessively over Sherlock’s shoulders. Mine, mine, mine. His hands find their way to Sherlock’s face, keeping him still as he licks the seam of his mouth as if he can taste every individual atom.

“We should…” John gasps, not really sure what they should do. Stop? Wait until Sam’s asleep? Continue? Take it to their bedroom and hope for a few minutes of uninterrupted time?

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees in a breathy sound of voice that sends coils of warmth down John’s spine to settle somewhere below his stomach. He pulls away with a huff, leaving John breathless.  Sherlock straightens his shirt and fails to hide his smugness as he glances over John’s dishevelled state. 

“Tea?” The smile he gives John is both fond and triumphant.

John huffs a laugh, “yes, please.”

They soon fall into their chairs, legs stretched out, tips of their toes touching. Sam runs to and fro the room, placing pieces of a puzzle, building blocks and crayons on the table, obviously with some scheme in mind. There’s the gentle clinking of a cup in its saucer as Sherlock rises and collects a book before settling down again, one long leg crossed over the other. Toby shuffles over and curls up in his basket. John feels the heat of the tea seep into his fingers, and he closes his eyes, relishing the comfortable silence of _home_.

A few months ago, John would never have thought this sensation possible. The domestic purr is enough to drain all the tension from his body and John finds himself nodding off. The conversation from the train shifts through his reverie. He thinks about the note Sherlock found on his hotel pillow, the teasing  _olly, olly, oxen free_. Come out, come out, we’re playing a new game now. Would Sherlock have revealed himself if not for the note? Glen Reese’s and Jane Hill’s murders had obviously not spurred him out of hiding. They had so readily assumed that this was Moriarty’s game, even if, in hindsight, they should have known there is no such thing as an obvious fact. It had needed Moriarty’s head, literally, dropped at their feet for them to realize that this was an entirely different game, with an entirely new player. One they knew nothing about, in fact, they haven’t even managed to figure out what sort of game this is. Mycroft is worried. And John knows, even if Sherlock won’t show it, that he is also at a loss. He knows to play the game of murder mystery, the whodunnit, cops and robbers. Never before, John thinks, has it involved a murderer who has the sympathy of the public, and who has managed to dredge up this age-old discussion, this nature of biology that John and Sherlock had skirted around for years.

The Alpha and Omega debate has always been a background noise that was occasionally rekindled in the newspaper after the release of a particularly nasty Alpha assault. But generally, these were small sparks that died after a day or two. People didn’t like being reminded that a small percentage of the population were involved in a very rigorous dynamic of dominance and submission. That in the not so distant past the survival of the human species had depended on these structures. No. It was preferable to think of it as oddments of evolution, like wisdom teeth or the appendix. Organs that no longer serve any purpose, other than becoming inflamed, painful and needing to be extracted.

He wipes a hand across his face, dispersing the thoughts. As soon as his mind is clear something else claims his attention and John sits up abruptly, almost knocking his teacup to the floor. Sherlock looks up from his book, an eyebrow raised.   
   
“Molly and I found something interesting,” John says, sounding a bit breathless at the suddenness of the memory.

 Sherlock’s brow knots in thought as if he’s not sure he’s going to agree with John and Molly’s assessment of “interesting.” It’s an expression John sees on Sam every time his son is introduced to a new concept, like wearing pants or a new vegetable. 

“Hang on, you’ll like it,” John pushes himself up from his chair and goes to fish out his clumsily folded police report that he had tucked against his side under his jacket.

“What is it?”

“A ten-year-old, locked room, apparent suicide, mystery.”

Sherlock perks up, his hands opening in a grabby motion. John stuffs the files into his hands. He counts down the seconds it takes Sherlock to recognize the significance of this particular case. He reaches two before Sherlock looks up from the file.

“Nash’s wife,” he says, “Lestrade said it was an obvious suicide.”

“Didn’t you once say something about there never being an obvious fact?”

Sherlock grins, looking immensely pleased with John. He scoots up in his chair until he’s perching on the edge of it, like a great, black rooster, head bent, eyes skimming over the details, making small, content, noises.

 

He’s still sitting there an hour later, when Sam clambers onto a kitchen chair, a bundle of crayons clutched tightly in one hand. 

 _Paper, please,_ he signs, studying John from under his thick, black eyelashes. 

 _Certainly_ , John says and finds a blank piece of paper for Sam to draw on.  John makes himself another cup of tea and settles down in the chair across from Sam, occasionally asking questions about what he’s drawing and googling the answer to how crayons are made. Sherlock is still and quiet in his chair with only the sporadic sighs and shuffles of papers. 

John is about to make a tentative suggestion for dinner plans when Sherlock suddenly leaps up from his chair.

“I need to-“

He halts, staring at John and Sam at the kitchen table. For a second, Sherlock looks like he’s suddenly gotten lost in a minefield and doesn’t know which way to proceed without stepping on something. John can see every nuance of emotions warring for control in Sherlock’s eyes. His itch to rush off and confirm his theory. His desire to stay with them. The urgency to solve the case. He wants John to come with him. His obligations to Sam.

“Go,” John says quietly, “it’s alright, it’s important.” He gestures to the file in Sherlock’s hands. 

“Right.” Sherlock strides across the apartment to the corridor, grabbing his coat and scarf.  “What about-“

“Molly can probably get you the keys,” John says, even if that isn’t what Sherlock is asking.

Sherlock does an elegant twirl, slipping his arms into the sleeves of his coat and twisting his scarf around his neck in one fluid movement.

“The neighbour-“ John starts. Sherlock’s hand is already on the door handle when there’s the sound of china smashing on the floor, a small woof and the high pitch timbre of Sam’s cries. 

John sees the way Sherlock freezes in the doorway, inches by inches, starting with his feet going all the way up to the taunt T of his back.

John is already moving towards the kitchen. Sam is clutching a broken crayon in one hand, thin streams of tears running down his cheeks. A quick assessment of the situation tells him that Sam’s not injured, but John’s teacup is beyond saving. 

“Sam’s fine,” John says, “just knocked the teacup to the floor. I’ll handle it.”

He’s certain Sherlock hesitates once more in the doorway before John hears the sound of his steps receding down the stairs. 

It takes several minutes to calm Sam’s near-catastrophe-outburst. There are tears and snot and blue fingers from the crayon melting in Sam’s firm grip. Toby presses his nose against Sam’s knees until he abandons the pencil to dig his hands into the dog’s fur. John gently washes his face and hands with a lukewarm cloth and assures him that accidents happen, he wasn’t overly fond of that particular teacup and that a broken crayon still works. The tears dwindle into sniffles and a quivering lip.

They make a new cup of tea and dinner with fish fingers, rice, and carrots (without peas), that they eat at together at the kitchen table. John tries not to think about Sherlock’s obvious guilt at leaving them. He finds that he doesn’t really mind, he doesn’t feel left behind.

 When they have finished their meal, John tidies away the dishes with help from Sam, who stands on a chair and carefully rinses the dishes under the tap. Afterward, both Sam and the kitchen needs a thorough cleaning. John coaxes Sam into the bathtub and massages shampoo into his son’s curls while Sam conducts a complicated experiment involving bubbles and his rubber whale. He narrates the entire story to Toby, who sits patiently through the entire explanation, tail thumping happily.

The bath makes Sam drowsy, and he tucks his hands under his pillow after just one story. John crams the duvet tightly around his tiny frame and sits on the edge of the bed, carding his fingers through Sam’s curls, listening to the sound of his breath petering out to an even sleep. Toby tucks himself next to the child, head on his paws. 

John returns to the kitchen, tidies away the rest of the plates and cutlery, then he makes himself a cup of tea and brings it to the living room. His phone is quiet, and John cannot decide if it is a good sign or not. Sherlock would first have gone to the forensic mortuary in Westminster to get the keys from Molly. Then he would have to take a cab across town to Paradise Gardens. It'd be late by the time he arrived at the old crime scene.

What will Sherlock deduce about the bleak corridor, the sickly smell of waste and neglect in the corridor, the sounds emanating from behind the walls? The hundreds of minor and major crimes committed, hidden the public and the sleuth's eyes?

He wonders what he’ll see in the small, dingy flat where the shipwreck of John’s old life washed up, where he thought all of doctor Fenway’s words were gospel. That he had to hide and be ashamed and try to be ordinary and not draw any attention to himself. If not for Mike Stamford, he might still be there. It’s such a bleak chapter of John’s past that he’s buried it far, far down, somewhere next to the memory of Sherlock’s funeral. 

 

The hours trickle by in a slow and steady pace.

 John drinks another cup of tea and reads a couple of pages of the Churchill biography. The silence of the apartment creeps into his bones, and so he closes his eyes until he can pick up the nearly there sound of Sam’s breath, almost synced with Toby’s. He hears the buzz from Mrs. Hudson’s television, the distant sound of police sirens cutting a path through London’s darkness. And then, petering on the edge of his senses is the sound of a click and a buzz from upstairs. 

His musing is interrupted by a phone call from Lestrade, who sounds marginally better than the last time John spoke to him.

“Molly said you might have some clues as to the identity of the marine?” Lestrade says, skipping right over the pleasantries. 

“A suspicion,” John confesses, “something about the suicide of Isidora Nash. I think-“

“I know,” Lestrade interrupts, “Sherlock has been texting me instructions all afternoon. Do you know how hard it is to find an old-fashioned cassette answering machine that still works? It's bloody impossible.”

John leans back against the couch, pictures of the original crime scene clear in his memory. Books and magazines on the floor. Chess pieces, broken picture frames. There had also been an answering machine on the floor, the one you used cassette tapes to record your messages on. It was the only thing that seemed to have survived the destruction of the living room.

“Wasn’t it kept along with the evidence?”

“I doubt it, it was never considered important- this was quickly ruled a suicide after all, ” Lestrade says. “I’m still trying to track down the collected evidence because Sherlock wants the cassette tapes, but it’s been almost ten years and apparently things gets lost when they are moved from one archive to the other.”

John ends the call with a promise from Lestrade that he’ll check in on the detective and call John if he looks too twitchy.

Around midnight, John pushes himself off the sofa, and stretches until he feels the ache in his back. He checks his phone again, but there are no new messages. Which could mean that Sherlock is busy making progress or that he’s searching for some important clue in his Mind Palace. Either alternative means that he’s probably going to work through the night.

John checks in on Sam and Toby, both sleeping peacefully, curled up together like lifelong friends. He leaves a kiss on his son’s forehead, before slipping away to his own bedroom. 

 

Sometime before dawn, John wakes to an empty space in the bed beside him. He slides a hand across the mattress but finds only cold sheets. If Sherlock has come back, he hasn’t joined John in bed. He closes his eyes, breathes in and picks up lingering scent of Sherlock. He twists around until he buries his face in Sherlock’s cold pillow and breathes in the scent of his Alpha. His sleep is restless, something nagging on his mind, a picture he can’t quite see clearly. 

A few hours later, he’s roused from his sleep by a wet nose against his ear and his son's determined hands shaking his shoulder.

 _Morning_ , Sam insists, even if a glance at the alarm says that it's only barely past six.

 _Good morning_ , John says, wiping sleep from his eyes and feeling surprisingly tired. He’s used to cope with only a few hours of sleep, but today he finds it hard to keep his eyes open

He brings his phone to life and are two texts from Sherlock, sent a little after one am: Still working. SH. 

And then, a second later: how is Sam? SH.

John stares at the message for a long time and feels warmth blossoming in his chest until he’s filled with the sensation of countless impossible-to-name things. Sam is fine, he types back, his thumbs lingering over the keys, three words on the tips of his fingers.

Sam nudges gently at his elbow from the side of the bed.

 _Toby needs to use the bathroom,_ Sam says. John glances over at the dog, who’s whining pitifully and glancing at John with pleading eyes.

 John bundles them all up against the early morning chill. He’s got Sam on his hip, clad in sweats, a blanket around him as they walk Toby a few meters down the street to a couple of trees, where he can do his business.  

Sam accepts a row of cut toast with jam for breakfast along with a handful of berries and one carrot. He eats in his slow, thoughtful manner, observing John who is yawning his way through his first cup of tea. 

 _Where is,_ Sam’s hands twists through a several of gestures, _curls_ and _detective_ and _father_ and _tall,_ but John understands him easily enough.

_He’s working, love._

_Why?_

John buys himself some time to formulate an answer by picking up the abandoned pieces of Sam’s toast. The child is still distrustful of the singed bits. 

 _It’s his job. He likes it,_ John says _, solving puzzles and mysteries and mur…and mysteries. He’s a detective._

Sam chews on a slice of banana, digesting John’s words. 

 _I like puzzles_ , Sam says, _and art, and books, and Toby, and cakes and otters and uncle Mycroft_ , Sam ends his list with the sign for an umbrella. John hides a grin behind the rim of his cup.

 _One day you’ll get a job doing the things you like,_ John answers. Sam spends the next few minutes working his way through his fruits, veggies and John’s statement.

_What do you like?_

_Well,_ John starts, wondering why he found it so difficult to answer such a simple question. 

There are the obvious answers, such as a nice cup of tea and a pleasant meal and a decent book. Watching Sherlock work is certainly far up on the list. But there are other, more difficult answers. The thrill of chasing a suspect down a dark alley, not knowing what’s waiting around the corner. The weight of a gun in his hand and the taste of danger on the tip of his tongue. The scorch of the sand against his skin, blood and pulse and life and death pumping under his hands. Dangerous, deadly things that he hasn’t thought about since the time where he put Sam’s needs above everything else. 

In the end, Sam answers for him. _Medicine. You like doing medicine._

 _Practicing medicine,_ John corrects automatically. John stands, collects the plates and cups and carries them over to the sink before returning his attention to Sam.

 _You should get a job doing medicine_ , Sam says promptly. 

John laughs, _you are quite right._ He presses his cheek against the top of Sam’s head, leaving a kiss there as he pulls away _. But, who’d take care of you?_

 _Toby?_ Sam signs hopefully, with wide, pleading eyes, the ones that are absolutely impossible to say no to.

 _Mrs. Kettle_ , John counters. Sam frowns, stuffing a couple of blueberries into his mouth, his brow set in a way that tells John he’s plotting his comeback.

 _How about preschool?_ John suggests carefully. 

_What is that?_

_It’s a place where you play and learn new things with other kids that are as old as you._

_I like learning interesting things,_ Sam concedes carefully.

John knows he does. Sam has an increasing appetite for knowledge that he knows will just grow with his age. It’s the prospect of other children that Sam finds daunting.  Which is not surprising, as their communication, vocal and auditive, is beyond Sam. In addition to Sam’s natural tendency to be shy, the prospect of having to navigate this impossible language barrier is also making John nervous. 

John’s brief search for preschools with special programs for deaf and hard of hearing children in London had not been very encouraging. They had been too far for a reasonable commute. He has a feeling that this is one of the times he will need Mycroft to actually pull some strings.

 _There wouldn’t be many children_ , John adds, as if he can sweeten the deal, _and they’d use sign language._

He sees the myriad of emotions battling for dominance in Sam’s face. Curiosity, interest, apprehension, fear.

 _We’ll think about it,_ John signs, _maybe we’ll go and visit them_. He thinks about the summer residential program he’d thought looked rather promising. 

 _Maybe_ , Sam signs, still looking doubtful. 

There are still many hours left of the morning and John needs to fill the time with something else than his own thoughts. The clock hasn’t even passed eight when he’s dressing himself and Sam for another trip outside. 

The sky is dark and the street is filled with commuters. As soon as they step outside, Hector appears, idling by the roadside. He gives John a small nod and twists a scarf around his neck to conceal his earpiece.

 They make their way to the children’s playground at Paddington Street Gardens, abandoned at this hour. Sam and Toby investigate the gazebo before tackling the swings, Sam content with pushing the seat back and forth instead of actually sitting on it. John watches, hands in his pocket and back bracketed against the cold wind, aware of the bodyguard’s keen gaze on them. Around ten, the sky still hasn’t brightened and a nasty, eastern wind brings with it the first drops of rain.

A second later, the skies break with a crack of thunder. 

John calls for Toby and the dog nudges at Sam’s knees until he has the child’s attention and the two of them trot over to John.

 _Wet,_ Sam says, running his gloves through Toby’s shaggy fur.

 _Yes, John_ agrees, _we all are_. _Let’s go home and get ourselves dry and warm._ He catches a glimpse of Sam’s longing glance at the thin stream of water pooling under the slides. _We can do some detective work on our own. Let’s try that fingerprint kit you got for Christmas?_

The suggestion is enough to pull Sam from his musings.  He grabs John’s hand and they make it back to Baker Street before they completely drown. John shakes off his jacket and Toby shakes the water off his coat and all over John’s trousers. Sam disappears into his room, returning a few minutes later with the fingerprinting kit Lestrade got him. 

It’s a high-quality kit with both graphite black and white talcum-based powder and even a fluorescent powder that glows under black light, proper brushes, lifting tape and backing cards and even a pad of ink for collecting prints for comparison.

 _It’s easier to do on hard, smooth surfaces_ , John explains.

John presses his finger against a microscope slide. Sam sticks his tongue between his teeth as he concentrates on grabbing just a small pinch of powder between his forefinger and thumb and sprinkles it over the whole print. John helps him brush the excess powder gently off and Sam’s shoulders shake with glee as the print becomes visible. With a large piece of tape, John lifts the print off the slide and tapes it on a black backing card.

They practice on Sam’s glass of juice before Sam sets off to search for other prints, while John dutifully follows his every step, acting as his assistant. It’s a job he’s quite proficient at.

Sam lifts prints from the living room table, the desk, the doorknob, the window in his room, an old lacquered box filled with Sherlock’s old scribbles, and a book he picks from the bookshelf. After an hour, he has a collection of black and white powdered prints, all lined up neatly on the kitchen table, pieces of powder in his hair and a piece of tape stuck to his sweater.

_Now you’ll need prints to compare them with, so you can identify to whom they belong._

With a modicum of mess, Sam collects all of John’s fingerprints, pressing his fingers one by one onto a white card and carefully labelling it with John’s name in gangly letters. He then collects Toby’s paw print, leaving John to clean Toby’s feet while Sam presses his own fingers onto the third piece of cardboard and painstakingly copies down his name in large, chunky, writing.

 _I need papa’s,_ Sam says, studying his collecting with obvious enthusiasm. 

 _You’ll need something he’s touched recently_ , John says. 

They are in the middle of scourging through Sherlock’s desk, looking for something suitable to dust for prints, when John’s phone rings. It’s Lestrade and he sounds tired, exasperated and in a dire need of a cup of tea. 

“John, sorry to interrupt your afternoon, but Sherlock is insisting that Mrs. Hudson has one of those old, fashioned cassette types answering machines. Could you maybe locate it and have it sent down by taxi?”

John glances at Sam, who’s sprinkling dust over Sherlock’s leather chair.

“Couldn’t Mrs. Hudson do it?”

“She’s not at home,” Lestrade, “but she said it was alright to nip down and fetch it. Sherlock says it’s on the top shelf in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. If you could find it and send it over, I’ll go to the main gate and pick it up.”

John decides not to question why Sherlock would know the content of Mrs. Hudson’s wardrobe. 

“Alright,” John says, already moving towards the kitchen where they keep a spare key to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “How’s it going?”

“We’ve been at Paradise Gardens all morning,” Lestrade mutters. John can hear the twist of lips and grimace in his voice. The only thing worse than councillor workers visiting would be police officers snooping around. “Plenty of people giving us the stink-eye.”  
    
“Any progress?”

“I can’t say I understand what he’s trying to prove,” Lestrade says. John hears something shuffling around in the background and the sound of books and papers falling and Sherlock muttering an explanation in a tone of voice that tells John he’s done it at least four times before.

“He insists he’s recreating the crime scene,” Lestrade explains, “but he’s doing something odd with magazines and a cassette tape that he thinks I’m too slow to comprehend. He’s ruined three tapes already.”

John is about to respond when there’s the sound of a door opening and closing on Lestrade’s end.

“What are you-“

Lestrade’s words are drowned in the sound of a door opening and closing again. A frustrated growl. Something being kicked across the floor.

“The door!” He hears Sherlock lament, “the gap is too narrow, but this has to be the-“ something shuffles across the floor before he hears Lestrade’s heavy sigh whisper through the phone.

“He keeps saying the gap under the door is too small,” Lestrade mutters, “that something should fit under it, but that it obviously doesn’t because the door fits solidly to the frame.”

“Hang on,” John says, “do you mean the front door?”

“Yes. He’s got this idea that the key is supposed to fit through the gap between the door and the frame, but it doesn’t, and it’s completely throwing his wild theory to the winds.”

“The door is new,” John blurts, “ten years ago, there’d be a gap of a few inches between the frame and the door.”

Suddenly Sherlock’s voice fills his ear.

“What do you mean,” the Alpha says, “that the door is new?”

“The old front doors in Paradise Gardens used to have a fairly solid gap between the frame and the door, you could fit a newspaper under it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure,” John says, “you could probably even see it in the crime scene photos.”

There’s the sound of Sherlock berating himself.

“You are brilliant!” Sherlock’s proud voice curls down his spine and John braces a hand against the wall. “You need to come down here. Bring the answering machine.”

John glances over his shoulder. Sam is gently spreading fingerprint dust on Toby’s coat while explaining the proceedings to the canine, who seems entirely comfortable with the situation.

 “I’ll need to find a baby and dog sitter.” There’s no way he’s taking Sam with him down to Paradise Gardens.

“Mycroft will be happy to do it,” Sherlock says. 

 

Mycroft is of course only too happy to watch them, even if there is nothing in his tone of voice to suggest it. He promises to send a car in half an hour, giving John enough time to pack together all the accessories that come with having a toddler and a dog. 

 _Fingerprints_ , Sam insist, and he stuffs his collection of fingerprint cards, the kit, a couple of wooden blocks, the art book and a car into his yellow backpack. 

Thirty minutes later, on the dot, John waves goodbye to Sam, Mycroft, and Toby and watches the sleek, black car disappear around the corner. He hurries back inside and lets himself into Mrs. Hudson flat and finds the answering machine, exactly where Sherlock predicted it would be. It’s still in its original carton box.

The streets are unusually busy, with people hurrying to and from, heads hunched in the rain. Two police cars blares past him, a distant siren answering their alarm from somewhere downtown. It takes him a couple of streets before John manages to hail himself a cab, and an hour after Sherlock called he finds himself back in Paradise Gardens, the box tucked safely under his arm. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the crime scene is adapted from Gosho Aoyama's Detective Conan nr. 18 and 19.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait folks, but April and May are the worst months for teachers. There are papers to mark, final grades to set, exams, tears and tantrums. Luckily, summer vacation will soon be upon us!
> 
> A thousand cheers to CowMow who did a splendid job editing this chapter and holding my hand whenever I started to fret. You are an absolute gem!

**Warning: some minor violence. Please see the previous chapter for disclaimer.**

 

**Chapter twenty-three.**

 

It’s not even 3 pm, but there is an unusually large gathering of people hanging around in the courtyard and milling in the parking lot.  The crowd consists mostly of teenagers, clad in worn shoes and thin jacket, ill-suited for the January chill. Some are smoking while others are moving to the beat drumming out from the speakers of a large, red, vehicle.  There’s restlessness to the crowd, John notices, shown in the way they shuffle their feet and check their phones. As if they are waiting for something to happen. In the distance he sees the flickering of blue lights as a police car slowly circles the area, coming to a halt just outside the parking lot.

Nobody pays him any attention as he moves through the throng and heads for the front door. There are more people inside, hanging about in the corridors, talking to each other and passing around cans of beer. A couple of children run past unattended, screaming and laughing. A broad-shouldered fellow arrives with a massive takeout bag from McDonald’s which earns him a cheer of a large group of guys and girls who are lingering outside apartment 301.

“There’s free beer outside,” the guy calls excitedly, and five boys immediately push past John.

 He wonders if this is normal, Friday afternoon, behaviour for Paradise Gardens. Is this a house party or a spur of the moment of celebration?

Even apartment 309 has gathered quite a crowd. People are pressing against the doorway to try and catch a glimpse of what is going on, eagerly sharing their theories. John has to elbow his way inside. He finds Lestrade talking to Albert Crawford, the latter swaying uneasily on his feet, his expression locked in an unpleasant grimace. John can’t tell if he’s nursing or nurturing a hangover.

“You’ve got no right to try and make us leave,” Crawford growls, “and you’re not going to pull the police investigation card on us either.”

“This is an-“ Lestrade tries.

“He’s certainly not police,” says an elderly woman with faded, purple, hair and with a tiny, angry dog clutched in her arms.  She points an accusatory finger at Sherlock. 

“We are just conducting an experiment,” says Lestrade.

“You guys weren’t this keen when that Alpha bastard Mr. Albury pushed his wife down the stairs,” says a tall, gangly girl, dressed in a purple number that she bought when she was a little thinner. 

“Or when that pisshole, Matthew, decided that his wife wasn’t young enough- he’s an Alpha too and-“

“Yesterday, someone broke into my flat and did away with all of my liquor-“

“Bloody Christ,” Lestrade grumbles, “we’re conducting a serious-“

His words are cut off by a resurgence of complaints. 

“Shouldn’t you have a warrant?”  
“No. This flat is technically government property and-“  
“You call this a serious investigation? You’ve just tossed a bunch of stuff on the floor.”

Crawford balls his hands into fists and John can tell he’s preparing another tirade against Lestrade when he catches sight of John and hones in on him instead.

“Knew you weren’t visiting from the Council,” he sneers, crossing the room to loom over John. “Come back to do some more snooping around, eh?”  
   
He doesn’t manage to say anything else, because Sherlock instantly presses between them, expression murderous.

“Step away. Now.” Sherlock’s voice is hard and possessive. John tries not to preen or let himself press against Sherlock like a cat.  He tries to rearrange his expression into something polite and neutral, but instead, there’s a reluctant flush of warmth spreading down his spine. 

“There’s no need to—” John starts, but Sherlock half turns and traps John with a despairing look. There’s no shelter from that gaze and it steals the breath right out of his lungs. Christ. The last time Sherlock’s Alpha personality showed itself like this, the detective ended up unconscious on the railroad tracks. John places a hand on Sherlock’s arm, giving it a careful squeeze. There’s a minute shift somewhere in his face, but his anger doesn’t disappear.

Crawford seems to debate the merits of countering Sherlock’s display of dominance. “Protective, are we?” His mouth curls into a cruel smirk. He steps away from John, shoving his hands into his pockets and walks over to stand beside two tall, bald men who John estimates to be in their late twenties. Next to them is a gangly looking blond on impossibly high heels and a tracksuit. They’ve formed a half circle in the kitchen, watching Sherlock and John and muttering among themselves.

“What’s with the audience?” John murmurs.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, his attention somewhere else, “they were here when I came and it doesn’t look like they intend to leave. It matters not, one of them is about to be proven guilty of murder and it’s convenient to have him close for an easy arrest. The machine?”

“Right, here,” John says and hands Sherlock the box.  Sherlock opens the box with the same ferociousness of Sam getting his Christmas presents. 

“I’m still not sure what you are hoping to prove, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, “The crime scene was a locked room, the key was inside the room -under- a magazine.”

“It’s just a trick,” Sherlock says. He moves with a dancer’s glide across the room, avoiding the books, magazines and tidbits he’s placed on the floor in a recreation of the crime scene. “It’s a clever trick, but I know how it was done. I know who the killer is.” He says the last part loudly and all eyes in the room snap to him.

“What is he on about?” The old woman exclaims. “Murder? What murder?”

John folds his hands at the small of his back and takes a step aside, leaving the stage for the detective. Sherlock loves his theatrics just as much as he loves a good murder. He’s building up to a demonstration and moves across the room like a magician setting up the props for his next show.

John’s phone buzzes unstintingly and he feels his heart skip a beat when he sees Mycroft’s name on the display. 

Mycroft never calls. 

Not unless it’s something very, very important. A hundred different scenarios play out in John’s imagination. Sam injured, a broken arm or leg. Sam fell and hit his head and Mycroft is calling from the hospital. There’s been an incident and Sam’s been taken by-

The phone sings again and John hurries to answer, pulling away from the crowd in search of some privacy, his heart pounding against his ribcage.

“Mycroft, what’s-“

His distress must be evident in his voice because Mycroft hurries to say   “ Sam is quite alright, John. I promise.” 

John closes his eyes against the overwhelming sense of relief and misses Mycroft’s following question.

“Then what?”

“The fingerprints Sam told me you collected them from your flat,” Mycroft says. 

John steals a glance at the crowd, and he tries to catch Sherlock’s eyes, but the Alpha is fully engrossed in his demonstration and the audience is hanging on his every word. Except for Crawford, who keeps glancing at the door. Is he looking for a way out, should things get heated? John frowns, but it’s impossible to read anything from Crawford’s studied poise.

“With the aid of the cassette answering machine, the pawn chess pieces it is possible to stage the scene to look like the victim killed herself in a locked room,” Sherlock says.

“Impossible,” the purple haired lady says.

The detective’s eyes gleams, “Watch! When I have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

His audience does not look convinced, but they move aside and give Sherlock room to unfold his experiment. 

“First, I need to extract the band from the cassette tape,” Sherlock starts to carefully drag the brown band out of the cassette until he’s got a long, thin, brown strip.

“John!” Mycroft says, dragging him back to the conversation on his phone.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry”  John says, “what about the fingerprints?”

“Well, I ran them through AFIS and IDENT1 databases,” Mycroft explains. And, of course he did, John thinks.  Why wouldn’t he employ the British and American international databases to show Sam how professional fingerprint identification works?

 Mycroft is probably reading John’s mind and adds, “educational purposes, of course.”

“Alright,” John says. He steals a glance across the room. Sherlock and Lestrade are locked in a simmering conversation with Crawford and the rest of the residents. Sherlock is still explaining how his experiment will work and how it will prove whom the killer is. 

“Then I place the tape into the answering machine, making sure that the band is sticking out.”

Sherlock places the cassette into the machine, carefully folding the lid, “then I’ll take the band and carefully-“

He starts walking backward towards the exit, dragging the band along with him across the room. The audience is silent, watching, even the little dog has stopped fussing.

“Do you remember where you took the prints from? Think carefully, John, this is very important.”

John lists of the places as well as he can remember.  The living room table, no, the one by the sofa. The front door, the old box, the window in Sam’s room, and a book from the living room. The one Sherlock had been reading earlier. One with a smooth, glossy cover, a book on chemistry or something. Poison, maybe? That sounds about right for Sherlock.

Mycroft is silent, listening, but John can hear the staccato of a pen tapping restlessly against the edge of a desk. It makes his heart skip a beat. Mycroft is never restless. He is the epitome of poised and collected and John cannot ever remember seeing him rattled, not even when-

“John. One of the prints came back as belonging to somebody, who, by all accounts, died several years ago.”

It takes John a few terrifying seconds to slow down his mind to a speed that allows him to digest Mycroft’s words. He twists away from the crowd until he’s certain nobody can overhear him.

“That’s impossible!” he hisses, “Right?”

“Once I´m outside in the corridor, I pull the tape through the keyring, and then I leave the key outside while I pull the rest of the tape back into the room, towards the chess pieces and the magazine.” 

John turns around and sees Sherlock move three pawns into a triangle, one between the tape, two outside it. The two bald men speak in hushed voices, but John is too distracted by Mycroft’s relegation and Sherlock’s explanation to pay attention to what they are saying.

“Now, here is the clever bit,” Sherlock preens, “we take the three pawns and use their heads. Their heads are around, but because the magazine is heavy and stiff, they stand steady on their heads.”

“Whose fingerprint is it?” John asks Mycroft.

“They belong to a Mrs. Emily Ricolletti.”

“Any…any obvious reason they’d be in our flat?” John murmurs, knowing he’s grasping for straws, “maybe the book or the box once belonged to her.”

“I’m sending my men over there now to investigate,” Mycroft says, refusing to even acknowledge John’s ridiculous questions. Of course, there’s no reasonable explanation. It’s not like there wasn’t anybody to touch the books or the box for the past ten years. John remembers unpacking both items. Furthermore, it means somebody’s been in their flat. Recently. Might have been in Sam’s room.

John looks to Sherlock and tries desperately to communicate with his Alpha. But Sherlock is already walking across the room, dragging streams of cassette tape towards the door, oblivious to John’s anxiousness.

“Now, I lock the door from outside, and put the key on the floor, still in the loop, mind, and then I’ll call the answering machine.”

The door closes with a click. The room falls silent for a few seconds as they wait with baited breath.

A minute pass.

Another.

“John?” Mycroft says, “I think you should stay away from Baker Street until we’ve resolved this-“

“Yes, yes of course,” John answers.

 They hear the sound of a phone dialling, and then ringing. Once. Twice. On the fifth ring, the machine hums and sings, before switching on to answering mode. The tape starts reeling in, and the key is yanked under the gap in the door and to the room. A pause. Then the phone rings again, and again the machine picks it up on the fifth ring, reeling in the tape as the silent message is recorded. 

It stops in the middle of the room, but then Sherlock calls the machine again, and the process repeats itself. This time, the key is dragged towards the magazine which is balancing on the pawns.  

“Mycroft, I’ll need to-“

The key hits the pawn and is dragged free from the tape. The nudge is enough to make the pawn topple over, leaving the key under the magazine. There’s a final call to the answering machine that spools in the rest of the tape back into the answering machine.

The room holds its breath. Lestrade looks caught between astonishment and resigned amusement.  Crawford shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The loaded silence only broken by the sound of Sherlock opening the door and re-entering the room.

“That’s-“ Lestrade tries, falters and then manages to find his voice again, “this means that the murderer is the one who called the answering machine.”

“The husband,” Sherlock confirms.

The room is silent for only a second before it explodes.  
“Well, he’s long dead and good riddance,” the old lady exclaims.   
“Great show and all,” the blonde adds with a vigorous nod, “but Andrew Nash is bloody dead, so you’re too late proving he was guilty, as we all knew he was.”  
"We always knew he was a murderer, but nobody would ever listen to us."  
“Yeah, somebody else took care of him. Properly.”

  
There’s a murmur of consent amongst the crowd. Sherlock’s lips tighten to a thin, white line, but there’s a smile, hidden in the corners of his eyes, a smile that only John knows how to see. 

“John,” Mycroft says again, “might you put my brother on the line? He’s not answering his phone.”

“He’s a bit busy at the moment.”

“This isn’t about Isidora Nash’s murder,” Sherlock says, “it’s about catching the man responsible for the murder of husband.”

There’s a shift in the atmosphere, like the sudden appearance of storm clouds on a sunny day.  John pulls the phone away, wondering if Sherlock is really going to head down this path, here and now? Can't he read the tension in the room? They should regroup back at the Yard, lay down all their evidence, get a warrant to search Crawford’s apartment and then question him with an attorney present, make sure there're no loopholes for him to slip through. 

Apparently, Lestrade’s thinking along the same lines, before he moves to grab Sherlock’s arm, and casts a discrete glance at the door.

“Yeah?” The woman in the high heels says, “how are you gonna prove that from your little show?”

“Mycroft, I need to go,” John whispers, “things are getting a little tense.”

“Plenty of people who got a good reason to do away with that Alpha bastard,” one of the bald guys says. “Not like anybody’s sheddin’ any tears.”

“Personally,” the woman in the high heels says, wobbling a little, “I’d thank whoever did away with him. Him and the rest of those Alpha monsters.”

“Yeah,” the other woman says, tossing her brown hair over her shoulder, “so, who do we have to thank for takin’ care of Nash?”

“I’d shake his hand,” the old woman says, “place has been much safer without that vile man around.”

Slowly, the crowd has migrated across the room to form a protective half-circle around Crawford. Their steely eyes turn to Sherlock, even the tiny dog in the woman’s arms is growling at him. John catches a glimpse of Crawford’s grin as he ducks his head down.

They know, John realizes. They know the truth, and they don’t care that Crawford is a murderer.

 Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it, his words faltering. Lestrade squeezes the detective’s arm, and John sees the moment Sherlock realizes that for once, his brilliant deduction is not going to be welcomed. 

“Well, we’d best be off,” Lestrade says with fake enthusiasm, “very interesting experiment,” he gestures to Sherlock’s set up in the flat. “You’ve proved that it was certainly possible….”

“Indeed….” Sherlock straightens his posture and glances across the room at John.

“Yeah,” John clears his throat, “let’s…get going then?”

Lestrade opens the door, and after a moment of internal debate, Sherlock follows, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched almost to his ears. The crowd follows them down the corridor, other doors opening as they pass, curious onlookers peering at the odd procession. Detective Inspector Lestrade’s quick, determined strides, Sherlock’s shuffled gait, John following them, hands in his pocket and the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

The crowd watches them go, like a pack of hyenas inspecting a herd of antelopes, waiting for the weakest one to reveal itself. Crawford and his friends don’t seem content to watch them leave the apartment, and follow them down the hallway calling out as they go. They are down on the second floor when a young, eager looking youth barrels past them. A few of his friends follow him, their heads wrapped with scarfs and clad entirely in black. They stop at the end of the corridor and start hammering on the door to 201. It opens and a man the shape and the size of a barrel opens the door.

“The police is here, Mr. Smith,” one of the teenagers hisses excitedly, “they say we have to dis…depe-“

“Disperse,” his friend interrupts, “says we aren’t allowed to gather in groups.”  
   
“The police ought to know better than to come over and stick their noses in our business. Don’t they know we take care of our own?”

"We should be allowed to take care of dangerous Alphas, and-hang on,” he brings out his mobile, his thumb flickering over the screen. He nudges his friend and points eagerly to the screen.

“My mate from Peckham,” he explains to Mr. Smith, “says it’s happen’ there as well.”

The group goes silent when they spot Lestrade and Sherlock. John feels their heavy weight on them as they pass. They are escorted down the corridor, all the way down the stairs and out into the gloomy daylight of the courtyard. The wind has picked up again; John feels its icy caress shoving at them. The crowd seems oblivious to the weather.

  
John counts twenty men and women, from all walks of life, even young mothers with children clinging to their legs. Some are checking their mobile phones, whispering excitedly to each other. 

“What’s going on, why is the police here? They said we’d be allowed to-”  
“I heard an Alpha threw his wife over the balcony.”  
“His wife and child,” somebody adds with a hiss, “from the fifth floor!”  
“Remember, we’re not to mind the police, they can’t touch us, this is a peaceful demonstration.”

“I know that guy,” a high pitched voice shrieks with glee, “the private detective, Sherlock Holmes. He’s a bloody Alpha, I’m sure.”  
“Was his name on the List?”  
The murmurs take on a sinister tone, like the first, distant rumbling of an avalanche. The first cracks of ice, giving away. John quickens his pace until he’s matching Sherlock’s, his arm brushing against his.

“I think we’ve outstayed our welcome,” John smile humourlessly, and Sherlock nods, equally tense and solemn.

“Get out of here!” Somebody shouts, and the group is quick to agree, hooting and calling, “get lost!”

“You want to arrest us for ridding our home of a dangerous monster?”  
“What are the police doing here, anyways?”

They round the corner, and John realizes that the police the people are talking about isn’t Lestrade. There are two uniformed constables, a man and a woman, standing in the middle of a half circle. The woman is talking into a walkie-talkie attached to her vest while her partner is unsuccessfully trying to get the crowd to back away.   

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” a voice cries, “you can’t come here and tell us to leave. This is our home.”  
“We are kindly asking all citizens to return to their-“  
“We have a right to protest,” a woman snarls, “you can’t stop us from voicing our opinions. Ain’t this a democracy?”

The male constable spots Lestrade, and he perks up like a dog spotting a treat. “Sir, sir!”

Lestrade cringes, but trots over to the two constables, the crowd parting like the reluctant Red Sea, before closing in on them. John catches only snippets of their conversation, but Lestrade is painting his frustration loud and clearly with his arms. The crowd titters around them, and when Lestrade cuts through them again, it’s to a barrage of sharp elbows and sneers.

“What’s going on?” John asks.   
“Apparently there’s a rally planned on Downing Street. It’s all over the internet. The commissioner has ordered all crowds to be dispersed, hoping to forestall a riot.”  
“That’s going well,” Sherlock observes dryly. The two constables are slowly walking away, their back ramrod straight, despite the shower of cackle and giggles from the crowd.  
“Not sure what they were thinking, sending two rookies out here alone,” Lestrade mutters darkly, “I told them to wait by the car, see if the crowd grows bored and disperses on its own, or if the weather drives them inside. If this turns nasty, it’s a job for the riot squad.”

John dares a glance at Crawford, standing at the very centre of the crowd, arms folded over his chest. He inclines his head, murmurs something to one of his bald companions, eyes on John. 

“We need to leave,” Lestrade says, ducking his head as somebody throws a shoe at his head. There’s a howl of laughter and John can see Lestrade gritting his teeth. 

“Get going!” Another projectile whizzes past their heads, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Somebody cheers, in the distant there’s a scattering laugh and an encouragement to aim better next time.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffs, “the man we need is right there. He’s the key to solving everything. If we don’t bring him in, he’s probably going to end up like the rest of the Support Circle. Dead. And then we’ll have nothing.”

“There’s still Edward Blithely,” Lestrade hedges.  
“He’s made himself almost untouchable. There’s not a speck of evidence tying him to the case.”  
 “You said Crawford still has a picture of Isidora Nash on his bedside table. I can prove her husband murdered her. It gives Crawford a motive for killing him. Not that I’m sure how he knows that-“  
“Sherlock’s right, Lestrade,”  John murmurs. “If we let Crawford go, we might lose our one chance at solving this once and for all. Crawford doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who will take the fall without dragging everybody else with him.”  
“Which is why we need to take him into custody,” Sherlock says, “or we can be damned certain he’s going to have a fatal accident. Lee Finkle’s death proved that somebody out there is pulling the strings, and if it’s not Crawford that leaves-“  
“No matter what, this isn’t the time or the place for this discussion,” Lestrade hisses. He grabs Sherlock’s arm and half-drags, half march him forward. 

“You saw how they closed ranks around Crawford,” he whispers, “if we try to apprehend him now, in front of this crowd, all hell will break loose.”

John dares a glance over his shoulder. The crowd seems to have almost doubles in size since he came. He sees the faces of young and old, mostly men, and groups of bored teenage girls. Some are watching them with curiosity, whispering amongst each other and casting long, studious gazes at the people next to them. Assessing their neighbours. Judging which side they are going to be on. A few guys are typing away or talking on their cell phones, glaring at John, Sherlock and Lestrade.

“We can’t leave-“ Sherlock scoffs, "if we leave, Crawford will disappear and then we'll have nothing."

Several pairs of grim eyes observes them, accompanied by a ripple of whispers through the group. An empty beer can is thrown towards them but lands several feet short. It sends a wave of laugher through the crowd, but the next can lands near Lestrade's feet, spilling beer on his trousers. The crowd titters in mirth, and John hears the sound of a trashcan being knocked over, probably for easier access to more projectiles. 

"Stop that," somebody yells, "or you'll get in real trouble. You can't go around throwing things at the police."

"Shut up, this is my home, I can do whatever I want."

There's a scuffle in the group, and a woman in black, leatherpants swings her purse, hitting a skinny youth in the chest. The two hisses and spit at each other like angry cats, the crowd moving uneasily around them. 

“Bloody hell…” Lestrade grabs hold of Sherlock’s arm again, firmly, like a parent leading an insolent child to sit on the naughty step. “Sherlock, we need to go before this crowd gets really nasty.”

“We can't leave without-”

The world shifts around him, and then several things happen at once. There's the sound of glass breaking and John turns just in time to see somebody throwing a rock through a nearby window. There's a loud whoop, somebody cheers and then stars explode behind his eyes as pain flares across his scalp as something hits him and sends him tumbling forward. He feels a hand gripping his arm, probably to try and keep him on his feet, but ends up gently lowering him to the ground.

"Shite! Are you alright, John?"

John blinks for a moment and lifts a hand to touch his forehead. His fingers come back warm and sticky, but the wound doesn't seem to deep, just a nasty gash above his eyebrow.

“Sir, sir!” The female constable grabs hold of Lestrade’s arm. John wonders when she got here, if he’s lost consciousness and if he needs to diagnose himself with a concussion.

“Sir, I can’t find Matthew….erm, I mean constable Brown.”  
Up close, John sees young, mousy eyes behind glasses knocked askew, accompanied by a smudge of dirt across her nose.  
“What do you mean?” Lestrade hands John a handkerchief that John uses to stem the flow of blood.   
“My partner, sir, he ran off to chase this guy who knocked his helmet off.”  
“Bloody Christ-“

The female constable lets out a shriek and John grabs hold of the lapel of Lestrade's shirts and yanks him down, just in time to save him from a rock that's hurled at them. 

Lestrade lets out a string of colorful curses.  There are cheers and cries from the crowd, followed by the sound of another window being smashed, and more hooting and screeches. 

“Let’s move, towards the police car.”

They wrap their hands over their heads and stumble across the courtyard, away from the crowd. John sees that the crowd has somehow split into several smaller groups. Some are throwing rocks at the windows in Paradise Gardens, others are making their way back, though if it's to seek shelter or protect their own possessions. A  gaggle of guys is fighting, mostly each other, cheered on by a crowd of girls in tiny skirts. They pull at jackets, yank at scarfs, kick and throw uncoordinated punches. 

Another empty beer can is thrown at them, people shout and cheer and for some reason, there's an uneven beat of music filling the courtyard.  

"This way," the female constable urges, impatiently gesturing for John to follow her as the two of them hobble down the road until they reach the police car, parked on the outskirts of Paradise Gardens. The constable fumbles with the locks before she manages to get the doors open and usher them inside.

 John's blinking blood out of his eyes, it's obscuring his vision. He pulls out a tissue paper from his pockets and dabs his forehead, pressing it against the wound.  He feels the slow, steady, rhythm of his pulse against his fingers as the cut throbs in pain.

The car wobbles. A pair of dark boots is stomping around on the hood. A young guy, shrieks, and hoots, waving a bottle of beer before jumping down and running after his friends. People spill past them, a steady flow of dark blurry colors. Some hammer on the windows as they pass and laugh. Empty cans and rocks are thrown at the windows, making them creak dangerously but they don’t give, thankfully. The female constable is gripping the steering wheel tightly, but it’s obvious that it’s impossible to go anywhere.

“Shite, shite, shite,” Lestrade curses and tucks his phone away, “it’s just as bad downtown, they can’t spare anybody to-“  
"Greg," John says, with a sudden, sinking feeling in his chest, "Where is Sherlock?"

 

 

 

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this chapter years ago, figured I might as well post it.

**Chapter 24.**

 

“This is the News, headlines at 9 o’clock. Police struggles to contain the violence, that started around noon after news spread on social media of…. So far we have to confirmed death, as the riot has spread from London to other major cities. The Prime Minister is saying that thousands more police will be deployed on the streets.”

 

The scene changes to outside number 10 Downing Street. Not even the press manager of the prime minister’s staff has managed to do anything about the woman’s haggard appearance. Her hair, usually tied away neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck has pulled free, and her mascara is lies so thickly on her lashes that every blink adds to the darkness around her eyes.

 

“I am determined. The government is determined,” the Prime Minister says in what many has termed her “headmistress” voice. “To see an end to these violence.”

 

The screen fills with the grim visage of Detective Chief Superintendent Victoria Marlow. Unlike the Prime Minister, Marlow looks like she’s just stepped out of a fashion catalogue. “I urge all the citizens of London and in other major cities, and guardians and parents of young people to keep them in to night. From ten p.m there will be an official curfew to recover public order.“ She turns her steely eyes to the camera, “to whoever decides to partake in the violence, make no mistake. You will see the full consequences of you actions.”

 

The news segment shifts again, this time to few of heavily clad riot police jogging down the streets. They are wearing helmets and carrying large plastic shields and are moving towards a large crowd of hooded youth, who are throwing rocks at the window displays at a Marks and Spencer. “The police says that custody cells are already filling up, and the violence is spreading.”

 

The image cuts to several burning cars, blazing up the dark night. A couple of shadowy figures lingers around the burning wreckage, cheering and throwing heaps of newspaper and magazines to feed the inferno.

“The violence is spreading,” the newsanchor’s voice explains, “this image comes from Manchester where we have reports that a number of fires have been set and that the fire response team is having difficulty covering them all and is currently having to prioritize residential areas.”

 

Mycroft takes a large sip from his glass of water. He’ll not allow anything to dull his faculties. The turns down the volume of  dramatic music of the newscast, watching images of violence fill the screen before the camera zooms in on the news anchors.

 

“We begin with breaking news now,” the man says, his fingers fiddling anxiously with the a bundle of papers on his desk. He always does this when he’s about to deliver bad news to the nation. “In the latest development regarding the riots in London and throughout cities in the country. Earlier this evening the Prime Minister was visiting one of the first sites to be hit by the riot, the offices of Andrew Nash, situated onto of a hundred-year old furniture store. The buildings burned to the ground within an hour. The Prime Minister condemns the violence that has taken our streets. A twenty-six-year old man and a man in his early thirties were shot earlier this evening and the hospital are reporting several severe injuries.”

 

Mycroft stares down at his cellphone. It’s been lighting up all afternoon and evening with texts and emails. Information from his wast network of operatives. But, nothing from John or Sherlock. Mycroft tries to reassure himself that it might not mean anything. The cellular network has been swamped since noon with 999 calls, they might be too occupied to call. John had said that Sherlock had forgotten to charge his. They might have lost their phones.  He tries to reassure himself with all these reasonable explanations. They aren’t strangers to a storm, John and Sherlock.

 

The female news anchor looks up from her papers to address the nation, “the metropolitan police has described the riots the worst since the London Riot of 1981. The riots started when a peaceful protest over the Parliament refusal to debate the list of demands set forth by Edward Blithely, despite 100 000 signatures gathered. The reason rejection of the petition was stated to be because it violets the privacy act.”

 

“Let’s just remind our viewers again what Mr. Blithely has demanded,” the male says.

 

The program turns to the recording of Edward Blithely’s television appearance just before Christmas.

 

 

Mycroft’s phone lights up for a moment, but the oldest Holmes is too occupied to watch the news report to pay attention. There might be something new to gleam from the reports. It’s easier to sort through the information already sifted through by the BBC.

_Certainly,” Edward smiles and leans back in the chair again, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled at his stomach. “Firstly, as I’ve already said, we want to remove clemency on all crimes committed by Alphas during….hormonal imbalance,” he doesn’t even try to hide his distaste at the words, but quickly resumes his neutral tone. “We want to make Bonding illegal, so we can have a constitutional marriage instead, wherein we will not permit Alphas to assert more than a legal claim on their spouses. The consequences of these Bonds are far too dangerous for this practice to be allowed to continue. We want the Alpha Registry to be available to the public so that people may know of the possible dangers inherent in their neighborhood. We also want to give people the legal right to refuse to sell or let their property to an Alpha.  Finally, we want all Alphas removed from positions of office and authority. They’ve wrecked havoc on our economy, and have been the cause of a massive corruption scandal in the police. Too long have we allowed them to govern vital institutes without question.”_

 

“The protest was organized over social media, a tool Edward Blithely has used well to front his campaign. Several gatherings were planned at various cities.”

 

The screen fills with a google map of England, zooming in on London where severals areas are tagged Camden, East Ham, Peckham, Hackney, Lewisham.

 

 

 

“Within hours several thousand people had gathered and officers were dispatched to make sure that the protests confined itself. There have been scattered reports of shots fired, some claim it was a police who turned their weapon on the crowd, others are claiming it came from one of the protests. The police were forced to flee when the mob turned violent. Several vechiels have been set on fire, shops and homes have been looted and destroyed. So far, over 500 people have been arrested. Our Home Affairs Correspondence, Tom Cromwell, has the very latest report.”

 

 

 In the background, sirens wails, and the viewers are given a birds-eye view of a severe fire engulfing three large apartment blocks. Despite the concrete structure, there seems to be amble fuel for the fire to consume. Thick, toxic, smog crawls to the night sky, eerie flickers of embers dancing in the wind. Mycroft hears the glutteral command of somebody shouting through a megaphone. Two small firetrucks are battling the raging fire, but Mycroft knows that they are simply hoping to control the spread. The apartments are beyond saving.

 

Tom Cromwell appears on the screen, a tall, gangly looking youth looking like he’s just been dressed in his Sunday school best by his mom. He clutches the microphone in his hands as though it was his only lifeline in the inferno.

 

“For a few hours this afternoon, it looked like the protesting was going remain peaceful. Now, the fire at Paradise Gardens is just one of several burning in London.”

 

The glass slips from Mycroft’s hands as he surges out of the chair.

 

The television screen shifts to show various scenes of buildings ablaze. A warehouse. Cars. Shops. A row of smaller apartments. Paradise Gardens. Sirens cries out in the sky, clouds of smoke billows, red, and orange, yellow, and white, and black with sooth.

 

“This is what happens when fear of the police evaporates.”

 

The image of two men, hooded and masks, carrying stacks of televisions and computers into a van. A young woman pulling on a lucious fur coat, ripping off the tag and stepping out of the display window to the laughter and giggle of her friends.

 

Bloody hell, Mycroft growls, show me the fire.

 

The scene shifts again to show a gaggle of dark figures, setting off fireworks and throwing rocks at a row of riot police, who are trying to shield themselves from the incoming projectiles.

 

“The mobs are feral, unabashed. What might has started as a political protest, has long since become widespread looting. This is pure mayhem.”

 

A bleeding youth staggers into view, clutching a gash on his forehead. A young woman skips across the road and wraps her arms around him, seemingly comforting him, until it becomes apparent that her friend is pulling the unfortunate youth’s phone and wallet from his jacket pocket.

 

More scenes of fires. Pictures of a guy carrying what looks like a viking spear, ambling down the street, people fleeing in his wake. Mycroft unlocks his phone and is already tapping out furious commands.

 

John and Sherlock had been at Paradise Gardens at four pm. When had the fire started? Was it likely that they were still there? Or had they returned to Baker Street.

 

But if they had gone home, why hasn’t Mycroft heard from them? Why hasn’t Hector reported in?

 

“The looting has gone on for hours without a single police officer in sight. Only tomorrow we shall be able to see the scale of the damage, but it is likely to be the most severe in recent memory. The Prime Minister recently told us that she is meeting with senior officers at an emergency meeting at midnight to discuss strategy.”

 

 Detective Chief Superintendent Victoria Marlow appears on screen again,  a continuation of her earlier segment. “I have a promise to all those involved in this violence. You. Will. Feel. The.Full. Force.Of.The.Law.”  For a second, her composure falters her lips curls back in a nasty snarl. For the first time in years, Mycroft is reminded that Marlow, like so many others in position of power, is an Alpha.

 

“If you are old enough to commit these heinous acts of crimes, you are old enough to suffer the consequences.”

 

The camera returns to Tom Cromwell, “The police steel themselves for more violence to come and urge once again, that parents and guardians keep their youth off the streets.”

 

The two news anchors appears on screen again, shuffling their papers and casting worried glances, before turning their attention to the prompts.

 

“We have tried to get a hold of Edward Blithely for comments. Many are claiming that  it was his urging for people to gather that is the root cause of the violence.”

 

“That’s right, Peter,” the woman says, “but we have also spoken with people who think that this eruption was inevitable. They have tried the peaceful route to enforce the changes they deem necessary, and when the government turn them down, they will use the only available tool necessary to them.”

 

“Is public violence and legal tool, Gale?” Peter asks, “has Edward Blithely lost control of his followers? We have seen signs of civil unrests all year, but some are speculating on the magnitude and the speed of which the riots spread. We turn to professor-“

 

Mycroft hears the sound of approaching footsteps (size 6, high heels, a slippery choice for well polished floors.) The door opens and the scent of Channel no. 5 announces Hestia’s arrival. She’s carrying a tablet under one arm, and flickering away on her Blackberry with both her hands.

 

“The information on the fire you requested, sir,” she says. She brings the tablet alive and flicks it towards the relevant side before handing it over. Mycroft scans it quickly, picking out the key pieces of information he’s looking for.

 

“The fire started around 8.30 pm,” Hestia lectures, even as Mycroft is reading, “it’s not yet possible to be certain, but witnesses claim that they saw smoke on the third floor, by then the fire had already spread. Paradise Gardens is an old apartment complex, no sprinklers, fire cells, smoke detectors or fire extinguishers. The riots impeded the speedy arrival of the fire-teams.Consequently, the fire spread quickly. They are still struggling to control it, though one fireman reports that it is mostly about containing the blaze and stopping it from to the carpark.”

 

“No reports of any casualties,” Hestia murmurs, “but there are two witnesses who claims they heard several gunshots.”

 

“Those witnesses would be D.I Lestrade and P.C Sarah Perkins.”

 

“Yes,sir,” Hestia says, “they are involved with evacuating people from the area. Apparently, many of the residents are enjoying watching their home burn, while some are trying to run in and rescue their possessions, or family members.”

 

“Mhm,” Mycroft says.

 

“I have D.I Lestrade on the line,” Hestia adds, and Mycroft extends his hand, his gaze still scanning the reports when he hears the Detective Inspector’s haggard voice in his ears.

 

“Who’s this? No, wait, get out of there-“ there’s the distinctive sound of scuffling and the blaring of sirens in the background.

 

“Any words on Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?”

 

For a moment, the only sound is Lestrade’s ragged breathing, and Mycroft pulls the phone an inch away from his ear.

 

“Who is this?” Lestrade asks again, an authoritative edge creeping into his exhausted voice.

 

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft answers, there’s no time to beat about the bush. “Sherlock’s older brother.”

 

“Oh,” Lestrade sounds surprised, “I didn’t know he had an…right.” There’s a slight pause on the other end, “their boy, Sam, is he with you?”

 

“He is quite safe,” Mycroft says, his voice softening at the noticeable concern in Lestrade’s voice. Sam and Toby have been secured away in a spare bedroom Mycroft has kept prepared for a necessary occasions. Sam hasn’t asked after his parents yet, too occupied with the myriad of puzzles and books Mycroft bestowed on him to keep him occupied. He’s promising himself that he’ll have good news for his nephew tomorrow.

 

“We got separated,” Lestrade says finally, “Sherlock ran after the prime suspect, and-“

 

“-And John ran after Sherlock,” Mycroft finishes. “I have been attempting to call them, but have been unsuccessful.”

 

“Yes,” Lestrade says, “John left me his phone so I could call 999, mine isn’t working and Sherlock’s phone hasn’t been charged. We were here all last evening, working on the Isidora Nash case and-“

 

“I think,” Mycroft says, moving across the room and settling down in his chair. Violent images are still flickering across the television scene as the blazing inferno seems to be spreading across his city. Burning busses and cars, shops and offices set ablaze. On his tablet, images and reports ticks steadily in. They are just managing to contain the fires, but are unable to call in additional supports from other cities, because they fear the disorder will spread there. The Queen has aborted her holiday and is returning home to the country, but will stay in her home in Scotland. All available officers have been summoned, but many are unable to, or unwilling to answer the call.

 

The army is already on standby, but in cases of looting and disorder, calling in the armed forces is the last resort. They learned that in Northern Ireland. Soldiers do not have the same training and practice as the police does in calming the public. A young soldier with a gun is far more dangerous than an inexperienced officer with a baton.

 

Still, if they don’t manage to get the fires under control soon, it will become necessary.

 

“It’s a long story,” Lestrade warns. Most of the background noise has disappeared, and Lestrade’s voice is loud and clear in the receiver. He’s probably stepped away from the streets, Mycroft thinks, or he’s sitting inside a car.

 

“I am familiar with most of it,” Mycroft assures him, “tell me about the suspect,” Mycroft clicks through a hastily collected dossier on Isidora Nash.

 

 

 

Sherlock digs his hands into the pocket of his coat to hide the angry clench of his fingers. The key to breaking this case is standing within spitting distance. If he can only get his hands  on Albert Crawford, he will be able to get all the answers he´s spent the past weeks and months (and maybe years trying to find.) He can make Crawford identify the last member of the Support Group, end Blithely´s campaign.

 

At the outskirts of the crowd, people are already loosing interest in them. Some turn and ambles back to their apartments.  He catches snatches of conversations of streets void of police officers and shops ripe for picking. Teenagers, kids really, scamper off towards downtown where the more fashionable shops are located.

 

He cannot tell the who and why of the first bottle being thrown. He can´t even say for certain if the projectile is aimed at them.

 

 

He sees the minute changes in Crawford’s expression. He licks his lips, the vibrating of carotid artery, pulsing against his skin. Crawford’ s gaze darts left, then right. He’s trying to determine the quickest and safest rout to retreat. He will mistakingly think that he knows the place better than Sherlock, but the detective has committed to memory every square inch of the complex. For a moment their gaze lock

 

An empty beer can whizzes past his head, and Lestrade mutters a curse. He keeps John in his peripheral vision. His expression is perfectly still and blank, but Sherlock senses the anger radiating off him. But there’s something else there too, some worry in his eyes that Sherlock can’t identify. John’s no stranger to hostile situations, in fact, he’s known to thrive on them, so what’s put unease in the click of his eyes.

 

Across the mob, their gaze locks for just a second. Then, slowly and all too campy, Albert Crawford turns and makes his way, seamlessly, through the throng of people. Sherlock waits for the span of a heartbeat, but Crawford’s skinheaded mates do not follow. The crowd’s attention is focused on the female police constable, John and Lestrade. Sherlock ducks his head and then quickly follow in Crawford’s wake.

 

It’s easy (too easy, a voice warns) to spot Crawford’s tall figure as the man cuts across the lawn and makes his way back to main entry. Why is he going back inside? Is there some evidence in his apartment he’s planning on destroying? Is Crawford confident enough to keep incriminating evidences in his flat? (Probably).

 

Crawford takes the stairs, two at a time, the sound of his steps is dimmed in the roar of music and shouting that’s emanating from the apartments. Even so, the man must know that he is being followed, especially since Sherlock isn’t making an effort to be subtle. Several people hurries past him, most of them clad in dark sweats, with hoods and scarves obscuring their face. Whatever is going on, it’s not just confined to Paradise Gardens.  Out of habit, he inspects his phone, only to remember that it’s been dead for hours.

 

The sound of the firedoor on the third floor opens and closes, and Sherlock quickens his pace. He rounds the landing, and heads up the final flight of stairs, he’ll be in the corridor just in time to see which apartment Crawford enters. His mind is already formulating the response to possible scenarios that will await him on the other side of the door. Crawford will be confrontational and aggressive. He’s a former serviceman (marine) but time and alcohol has lied waste to his body and his reflexes. He might have brute strength on his side, but Sherlock is quicker and sharper.

 

Crawford hadn’t brought his lacks with him, which indicates that whatever confrontation he’s planning, whatever monologue he’s got prepared, he doesn’t want his friends to know. But, why? He had taken such silent pride in killing Alpha Nash, why wouldn’t he want to take the same acclaim for the triple murders? 

 

Because somebody else doesn’t want him to confess to it.

 

The last member of the Support Group. The person who solved the Isidora Nash murder and told Crawford the truth about her death. It must be the person who recruited him to Support Circle. The nurse.

 

Sherlock yanks open the door to Crawford’s apartment. His mind recognizes the click of the safety being turned off even before he sees down the dark 9mm barrel.

 

“I was surprised that you’d come alone.”

 

“I was not about to give you any leverage,” Sherlock replies, satisfied that his instincts had been right.

 

Crawford cocks a brow, and then gestures with the gun for Sherlock to move into the living room. The door closes behind him with a click, the sound of a chain rattling as the safety is pulled in place.

 

“May I?” He asks, a nod to the sofa.

“Certainly,” Crawford acquiesces, his gun never leaving Sherlock. “Forgive me for not offering you anything to drink.”

 

Sherlock lets a shrug of his shoulders declare his disinterest.

 

“Excuse me,” Crawford said. He fishes up a cellphone from his pocket and taps away at it, his attention half on Sherlock, half on the phone. But the Alpha knows that he won’t have time to overpower Crawford quickly enough the gun out of his grips. Allowing himself to walk into this trap, also means that he lost the element of surprise. So he settles down. He waits. He observers.

 

The living room is a mirror of the same one he spent all last night in. A small, square, block with a single window, an open kitchen, a door leading to the bedroom and ensuite bathroom. There are stacks of newspapers on the uneven table, most of the headlines are several days old. There are cartons of old take away food, Chinese boxes, Thai, pizza. The air in the room is dank and stinks of nicotine, and the ashtray at the end of the sofa is filled to the brim with burned butts and half smoked fags. There’s a bottle of whiskey on the table and an impressive looking television sets takes up the entire wall. Crawford has spent a lot of time in this apartment. He´s been restless, in a way that suggests to Sherlock that somebody has told him to lay low and keep it cool.

 

He looks up at Crawford, who is aggressively punching the display on his smartphone.He´s calling for instructions, Sherlock thinks. Is he calling to somebody to let them know Sherlock has arrived, but that John hasn´t?

 

But, if this confrontation was planned, why doesn’t Crawford know what to do?

 

“Shite,” Crawford sneers at the phone, “busy? How the bloody hell can your phone be bloody busy?”

 

There are some discrepancies to the general poverty of the apartment. There’s a solid gold chain necklace around Crawford’s neck. The whiskey on his table is a Johnnie Walker, blue label. That’s a two hundred pound bottle. His gaze trails to the liquor cabinet, or rather, the bookshelf dedicated to store alcohol. 18 year old Glenfiddich. 18 Year old Dalmore. These are not the drinks of a man who lives in a welfare apartment.

 

In the distance, Sherlock hears the wail of a siren. There are more eager shouts coming from the corridor. A baby is crying, a couple argues. The sound of glass smashing, something hits the wall in the apartment on the other side. He hates not knowing what’s going on.

 

“Well, now what?” He asks.

 

“I guess we’ll wait,” Crawford says. He hits redial, but once again his call goes unanswered.  Crawford scowls at his phone and then puts the phone on the coffee table, within easy reach.

 

“Who are we waiting for?”

 

“That’s none of your concern,” Crawford sinks slowly into the chair opposite Sherlock, his gun still trained on the detective.

 

“I thought it was very much my concern, as you’re calling them to announce my presence. I am quite looking forward to meeting them.”

 

“You’ll just have to be patient.”

 

Sherlock arcs a brow, and then settles down to wait.

 

The silence makes it self at home, heavy and uncomfortable in the apartment. Crawford keeps casting furtive glances on his phone, but the screen remains dark. Outside the noise rises and falls, sirens cuts through London. The long wails of fire engines, building from a lower tone and rising. The burst of an ambulance sirens, the steady stream of police cars hurrying down the roads. They aren’t coming towards Paradise Gardens, they aren’t even heading in the same directions.

 

“Somebody told you Isidora Nash was killed  by her husband,” Sherlock says, filling the silence. “Who was it?”

 

Crawford’s eyes flits towards the bedroom door. “Ah, an affair. It’s dangerous to step on another Alpha’s turf. But it wasn’t sentiment that made you avenge her decades later. Revenge was it? Some unsettled score with Nash? No.”

 

The dingy apartment. A refuge for those clinging to the skirts of welfare and handouts. That Crawford has lived here for so many years is because he’s lazy, unable and unwilling to hold down a job. He lives in squalor.The way he glared at the phone indicates that he’s got a temper, like so many other Alphas. Can’t hold down a job for more than a few weeks at a time.

 

“You don’t care about politics or justice. Expensive drink, new television. You care about money.” An image flashes in his mind, the terse prose of Doctor Coleman “ _Whoever did it, had a steady hand and enough experience with a scalpel to perform clean and precise incisions.”_ Not medical experience, experience with using a knife to inflict pain and make people talk.

 

 “You tortured the victims and made them give up their bank account information, even if that wasn’t part of the plan.”

 

Crawford’s face remains studied and perfect, the only indication that Sherlock is right is the slight whitening of his knuckles around the gun. He folds one leg over the other and calmly settles his folded hands on top of his knees. Crawford watches his every move with a calculating gaze.  Behind the wall of his friends and with the lifeline of his phone, Crawford had been in control. Now he just needs to make him lose it, with losing his own.

 

“How did you convince the others that Nash should be in the first batch?Because there were plans to kill others. You had a list-Did you tell them some sob story about how he mistreated his poor wife?

 

 

Crawford huffs a laugh, a nasty vicious thing, “we’re not doing this,” he says, “you’ve been watching too many Bond movies. I’m not going to spill my guts or have some grand monologue. You’re going to sit there, with your mouth shut.”

 

“Or what?” Sherlock can’t resist the taunt. “If your plan was to kill me, you’d have done so already. Your partner certainly believes in the dramatics.”

 

“I might get paid good money to keep you alive, but they weren’t specific on the conditions. Shut up, or I’ll shot you in the leg.”

The threat is sincere.

 

Sherlock’s mind is already racing ahead. There is no way Crawford would have chosen Nash as his victim, if this was about monetary gain. Nash lived in the same seedy apartment block that Nash did. Joseph Braithmwort is the obvious choice if the motive is money.

 

Is the connection not between Nash and Crawford, but between Crawford and Braithswort? Does Nash have access to funds they haven’t uncovered? How did Crawford come to know about them?

 

If it is about the money, then it doesn’t really matter to Crawford if Isiodra Nash was murdered or not.

 

They sit there in silence for another hour. Every ten minutes Crawford tries the number, but he’s not able to get through. With every try, there is a new crack in his composure. Angry, red, spots appear on his neck. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead. The grip on the gun goes tight and white. Crawford is not accustomed to be put on hold.

 

He doesn’t want to admit that he is concerned, but it is strange that John is not here yet. Surely he should have noticed his absence and made his way to Crawford’s apartment by now. Sherlock is counting on John´s timely intervention.

 

 The only reason he’s not here, is that something is preventing him from coming.

 

The crowd had been unruly, but he had read the members of it to be more interested in raising havoc, run them off the property, overturn a couple of trashcans, break a few windows. Had they turned hostile? The yowl of yet another siren cuts through the silence. Crawford is studying the phone, but he sound is enough to make him cast a furtive glance through the window. Sherlock follows his gaze. In the distance, a black, plume of smoke crawls towards the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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End file.
